


The Marriage Bargain

by Kyele



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Falling In Love, Harlequin AU, Legal Complications Made Them Do It, M/M, Modern Era, References to Gaslighting, References to Infant Death, References to Miscarriage, References to Spousal/Domestic Abuse, References to Suicide, Regency Romance, references are to events occurring in the past offscreen and not to main characters, see chapter notes for additional detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 151,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Thawnes are the cream of Central City society; wealthy, powerful, and numerous. Eobard Thawne, head of the family, loves his cousin Eddie enough to allow his decidedly middle-class pursuits – but when Eddie asks permission to leave the family and marry Iris West, that’s a bridge too far. Eobard has to lay down the law for the sake of all the other Thawnes: either Iris will pay Eddie’s stringent life-price, or there will be no marriage! </p><p>Barry Allen owes the West family everything – they took him in after he was orphaned, and looked after him as if he were their own. He’s not going to stand idly by while some pretentious blueblood blocks his adopted sister’s path to happiness. But when Eobard Thawne offers him a deal to make it possible, will Barry be able to keep up his end of the bargain?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I appear to have committed Harlequin AU. Oops?
> 
> Thanks to the usual enablers - coco (themadwomanunfortunatelylackingabox), maraceles and elrhiarhodan - for _not_ stopping me while they had the chance :)
> 
> Updates Tuesday and Friday, as usual.

Patty grabs Barry’s arm as soon as he gets off the elevator at the precinct, bright and early Tuesday morning, ready to face down another exciting day of CSI work.

“Is it true?” she hisses.

Barry barely manages to keep his coffee from slopping all over them both. Oddly enough, his reproachful look doesn’t seem to faze Patty in the slightest.

“Is what true?”

Patty glances around like she’s in a bad spy thriller. They’re barely a few steps out of the traffic of people arriving and leaving for the day. The elevators are dinging, the doors are opening and closing, and the desk sergeant is yelling for some form or other. Everything seems normal to Barry. He returns his gaze to Patty, quizzical.

Her voice drops even lower. “Did your sister _really_ ask Eddie Thawne to marry her?”

Barry almost spills the coffee on _himself_. “What?” he yelps.

“So it’s not true?” Patty seems to relax and even allows Barry to reclaim some of his personal space. “I _told_ Vasquez it was just a rumor!”

“Hang on, I – ”

“You should have heard what the scuttlebutt was saying,” Patty goes on. Apparently relieved of her concern, she starts heading back to the forensics lab; reeling, Barry follows her. “At first I just heard that Iris had asked Eddie to get married, which would have been crazy enough on its own, right?”

“Right,” Barry agrees dazedly, not even processing the implied insult. It’s not as if Patty’s _wrong_ , anyway. The Wests may be a perfectly respectable middle-class family, but the key word is exactly that: _middle-class_. Which the Thawne family is most decidedly not. Thawne Industries owns half of Central City. Their blood is bluer than the uniforms passing Barry and Patty by. There are Thawnes in politics – they don’t currently hold the mayoralty, but Barry had _voted_ for Representative Thawne in the last House election – Thawnes in business, Thawnes in the arts, and even Thawnes running the freaking Thawne Foundation. Barry had gotten through college on a Thawne Foundation scholarship.

Most Thawnes spend their time running businesses or cities or charities. Eddie Thawne is the black sheep of the family. The circumstances that have led Eddie Thawne to work as a police detective are murky; Eddie may be dating Barry’s foster sister, but that hasn’t made him any more forthcoming. Eddie clearly has no taste for the jet-setting lifestyle most of the Thawne family lives. But how Eddie had gotten his family head’s permission to actually forge his own path remains a mystery to this day, despite Eddie working among a bunch of nosy cops.

It’s not as if getting his family’s head’s permission would have been a formality. It’s all very well for someone like Barry or Iris to wheedle and cajole and defy Joe West when choosing their careers or spouses or what have you. The Wests are middle-class and make no pretension otherwise. There aren’t generations of family blood and family money binding the Wests to obey Joe’s word. But Eddie? Eddie _couldn’t_ be working as a detective without having his family head’s permission. And he’ll most definitely have to have Eobard Thawne’s permission to marry.

Even Iris, in the end, hadn’t applied to the police academy after all.  

Patty has been rambling on as Barry’s thoughts have wandered. “So we were all assuming that Iris had asked Eddie to have her marry _in,_ right? A little social climbing – imagine your sister as a Thawne!”

Barry _has_ imagined it, nearly every day since it had finally been borne on him how serious Eddie’s and Iris’ relationship is. Barry happens to think that Iris would make a better Thawne than half the Thawnes born. But it’s not Barry’s opinion that matters. The cold reality is that it could never happen. In the first place, the head of the Thawne family would be unlikely to accept Iris as a match, even for Eddie, indisputably the family’s black sheep. Not when there are so many other wealthier or better-connected people from the other high-class families who would be glad to cement an alliance by exchanging marriages with the Thawnes. That it would be a marriage of convenience in Eddie’s case at least wouldn’t bother them in the slightest, not if the general wisdom about the cream of Central City’s Society is to be believed. Even if it isn’t –

In the second place, Iris _can’t_ marry into the Thawnes. If Iris becomes a Thawne, she’ll cease being a West. But she’s the sole heir to the West family. Barry may count himself a West socially and economically, but he’s still an Allen by blood. He can’t inherit. And there’s no one else to do it. The Wests had never been a large family. There had been a few cousins, but they’d all been much older than Iris, and married out even before the car accident that had taken the lives of Iris’ mother and younger brother.

Joe had considered marrying, at that point, setting his own broken heart against Iris’ best interests. But then Barry had lost his own family. Joe had taken Barry in and decided to make a go of it just the three of them. The West family may not be much – they may not be worth millions, or have foundations and parks named after them – but they’re all each other has. Iris won’t leave.

“Iris won’t leave,” Barry repeats aloud for Patty’s benefit.

“That’s what I said!” Patty agrees. She’s known Barry for a long time – since grad school, in fact – and she knows the West/Allen family dynamics as well as any outsider can. “But then Vasquez said that Iris hadn’t asked Eddie to marry in. She’d asked him to marry _out_!”

Barry stops dead, mere steps into the crime lab. “To marry out?” he repeats blankly.

“Yes!” Patty drops into one of the swivel chairs and spins around, laughing at Barry. “Can you believe it? She asked Eddie to become a West!”

“Oh my God,” Barry says faintly.

“Thank goodness it isn’t true,” Patty laughs. “You guys are pretty awesome, but can you imagine the look on Eobard Thawne’s face if Iris West asked him for Eddie’s hand?”

Barry has never met the head of the Thawne family, but – “Oh _God_.”

“I told Vasquez it couldn’t be true,” Patty says airily. “I mean, everything else aside, there’s no way you guys could pay Eddie’s life-price. Though I almost wish Iris had asked just so that we’d know what it would be! You know? What do you think a Thawne is worth these days? Couple hundred thou at least, right?”

“At least,” Barry agrees. He hardly even knows what he’s saying. All he can think of is Iris, yesterday afternoon, telling he and Joe that she had some errands to run downtown and not to expect her home for dinner.

There’s lots of things downtown. Iris’ favorite boutiques are downtown. She goes downtown all the time. It doesn’t have to mean she’d gone to visit Thawne Industries Headquarters to ask Eobard Thawne for Eddie’s hand in marriage.

Iris _had_ to have known what a disaster that would be. Right?

_That didn’t stop her from dating Eddie in the first place,_ the quiet voice of reason murmurs from the back of Barry’s mind.

Barry wilts. Who is he kidding? Of course the rumors are true. It’s the natural next step to cap off the increasingly distressing saga of Eddie and Iris’ relationship to date.

“Still, it sucks either way,” Patty muses. “They seem to really like each other, but the relationship’s got no future.”

Barry can still remember Joe’s explosion when he’d learned that Eddie and Iris had been dating at all. _How do you think this is going to end?_ he’d shouted. _You think this is a fairy tale? I’ll tell you. This ends with the two of you broken-hearted. Or worse._

_Worse_ meaning a love-match: a relationship that tries to be a marriage without the legal sanction of one. The barriers to that are steep but not impossible to overcome for a couple of middle-class kids like Joe and Francine had been. For Iris and Eddie – for a West and a _Thawne_ –

There’s a reason all of Iris’ older cousins had married out. The wonder of it had been that they’d all found families willing to take them in, given that the head of their old family had been involved in such a scandal. Joe and Francine had always sworn they’d been happy enough not to mind it. But Barry remembers his own parents talking about the Wests’ sad situation, when they’d thought Barry asleep or occupied or too young to remember. Joe’s and Francine’s had been a love match. It had brought the Wests perilously close to ruin. Iris entering into one would finish the job.

The sound of a throat being cleared makes Barry jump. He spins around to see Eddie standing in the door to the lab.

“Good morning, Detective Thawne,” Patty says from her stool. Her usual cheer is audibly dampened. No wonder. Eddie looks like something the cat dragged in.

“Good morning, Ms. Spivot,” Eddie says. His gaze never leaves Barry’s. “Do you mind if I borrow Mr. Allen for a minute?”

“No,” Patty says, probably automatically, before her eyes widen.

“Barry?” Eddie steps slightly aside and gestures. “A word with you?”

“Sure,” Barry says numbly, following where Eddie leads.

* * *

Where Eddie leads turns out to be down the hall and into one of the interrogation rooms, currently unused.

“I wanted to get to you before the gossip did,” Eddie says ruefully, leaning against a wall. “I’m guessing by the look on your face that I failed.”

“Is it true?” Barry demands. “Did Iris ask the head of your family for your hand in marriage?”

Eddie sighs. “Yes. It’s true.”

“And?” Barry holds on to the faintest glimmerings of hope. Maybe Eobard Thawne had been reasonable. He’s supposed to be a reasonable kind of guy, according to the Society pages and the general sentiment. A scientist. Barry had read his biography a few years ago, before Eddie and Iris had started dating. He doesn’t usually pay attention to celebrities, but among Eobard Thawne’s other activities, he’d been the founder of STAR Labs. Nora Allen had worked there for a few years, after getting her Ph.D., before deciding to become a professor instead. Barry had read the biography less out of an interest in Thawne himself and more as a way to learn more about his mother’s life. But Barry had formed an impression of Eobard Thawne as a reasonable kind of guy.

Eddie is shaking his head, though. “He can’t come down far enough,” Eddie says bluntly.

Come down far enough on the price, Eddie means. Marriage is an economic reality as much as it is a romantic one. A person belongs to their family, socially and economically. When they marry out, their birth family loses them as an asset, and their married family gains them. To balance the scales, the married family pays a price – a dowry – to the birth family.

There’s no official scale for dowry-prices. They’re negotiated, and subject to the whims of the free market. One of Barry’s friends from college, a brilliant young man from a poor family, had gotten married for the low low price of a toaster oven and two tickets to Metropolis, used for their honeymoon. Henry Garrick’s family had bought a nice house for their younger son Jay with what Nora Allen had given to marry Henry. And a Thawne?

“How much?” Barry whispers.

Eddie clears his throat. “One point two million.”

“One point – ” Barry’s voice fails him. He swallows and tries again. “ _Million_?”

Eddie tries to smile. “Believe it or not, that’s a steal.”

Barry looks around for one of the hard metal chairs that are the only kind the interrogation rooms has. He locates one just in time not to fall over entirely.

Million. _Million._ The West family has never had a million dollars. If you were to add up all the money the West family had ever had, it probably wouldn’t be a million dollars. They’d never been a rich family. Francine’s family had had money, but everything Francine had had had reverted back to her family on her death. Even the house they’d lived in. The Wests live now in a modest bungalow that’s mostly mortgaged, and it’s lucky that Iris has started getting paid for her reporting now, because it means they’ve stopped having to choose between repairs to Joe’s car and the new water heater the bungalow has needed for the past three years.

They’re hardly impoverished. But there is no way in a million _years_ that they will ever have a million dollars.

Eddie must see that on Barry’s face, because his painful not-really-smile falls off his face. “Yeah. Iris… she’s taking it pretty hard.”

“How could you let this happen?” Barry cries. “You let her get close, you let her fall in love – ”

“Iris makes her own decisions,” Eddie snaps back. “And I thought – I thought – ” He falters, visibly sagging. His arms come up to cross defensively over his chest and the lines on his face seem to deepen between one breath and the next. “I thought she’d marry in, all right? I know it would have been a stretch but – Eo’s always liked me. He let me come be a cop because it was what I really wanted. And he never gave me grief for it, either, not like the rest of the family who are always jabbing at me about not living up to my potential or my duty to the family name or whatever it is…” Eddie seems to notice that Barry frankly cares very little about Eddie’s interfamily struggles and shakes his head, dismissing the topic. “I thought I could persuade him to accept Iris. She’s so bright, and tough, and loving. She never gives up on anyone and she’s more than sharp enough to hold her own at family events. Eo would love her if he gave her a chance, and I was sure I could make him give her one, but…”

“But Iris can’t marry out,” Barry finishes, gently in spite of himself. “How did you not know that? You’ve been to our family dinners, you came last Thanksgiving – surely you noticed there were only four of us around the table!”

“There are cousins in the photographs!” Eddie defends himself, then droops again. “I didn’t realize, okay? Maybe that was dumb of me. Fine, I’ll take that blame. But I really didn’t know. Yeah, I thought marrying Iris would be rough, but I thought it was just something we’d have to stand up to my family about. I didn’t realize that she literally couldn’t marry out.” Eddie’s still slumped against the wall, but he meets Barry’s gaze squarely. “My intentions were honorable, as they used to say.”

“Well, now you know,” Barry says. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I honestly have no idea.” Eddie uncrosses his arms to rake one hand through his hair. “I tried to argue with Eo, to get him to set a dowry-price Iris could afford, but – ”

“But you’re a Thawne, and she’s a West.”

“Eo’s being all proper about it,” Eddie says miserably. “If he lets me go cheaply it will cheapen the rest of the family too.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Eddie blinks. “No it’s not,” he says. “I hate it, but it’s a fair concern.”

“Ridiculous,” Barry repeats. “You can’t put a cost on love!”

“The bluebloods can,” Eddie says bitterly. “And they’ll extract it from the rest of my family, if Eo doesn’t extract it from me. These things have consequences, Barry.”

“Screw them,” Barry says plainly.

Eddie starts laughing. It’s not remotely happy-sounding.

“Seriously,” Barry presses. “If you don’t care, and Iris doesn’t care – ”

“There’s a lot more people involved than just Iris and I! I’ve got a bunch of cousins, nieces and nephews, it will affect their future too – ”

“So set them a good example! Show them that all this Society bullshit doesn’t have to rule their lives.”

Eddie’s laughter trails off. He looks at Barry, something unfathomable in his gaze.

“I wish I were as free as you, Barry Allen,” he says finally.

There’s a shout down the hallway. “Thawne! Where the fuck are you? You’ve got a case!”

“Shit,” Eddie mutters. “I’ve got to go. Look, I won’t bother asking you to keep this to yourself – ”

“Of course I will,” Barry says, offended.

Eddie laughs again. “No point. The rumors are gaining steam. Iris went to see my cousin, that’s all the rumor mill needs in the way of proof… but you don’t have to deal with this if you don’t want to. You can say you don’t know. And if someone from the press approaches you – ”

“Thawne!” The Captain’s voice sounds closer, as if he’s approaching in search of his wayward detective.

“I’ll be fine,” Barry says hastily, as reassuringly as he can. “Go on, Singh’s going to blow a gasket.”

“Yeah.” Eddie reaches for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle. “Thanks, Barry. You’ve always been cool about this. Iris and me, I mean.”

Barry waves this off, embarrassed. “You make her happy.”

“I hope so.” Eddie’s expression turns briefly stricken. Then he squares his shoulders and pulls the door open. “I hope so.”

* * *

The rest of the day is an inventive form of torture. Patty is a good friend and confines herself to two raised eyebrows and a low whistle of astonishment when Barry gets back to the crime lab, but the rest of the precinct isn’t so discreet. Anyone who  _hadn’t_ believed the rumor changes their minds by lunchtime. Eddie doesn’t exactly spread it around, but his hangdog face and snappish replies to any questions confirm that there’s heartbreak afoot, and imagination does the rest.

Patty stops Barry when he starts heading for the elevators, as usual. “Better go out the back,” she says, unwontedly serious.

“The back? Why?”

“Just in case.”

Barry doesn’t argue any further. He just spins on his heel and makes for the fire stairs. They let out onto an alley, but a relatively clean one. No one tries to squat outside the CCPD headquarters. Barry’s parking spot was terrible today anyway, so it doesn’t really matter that he’ll have to walk a few extra feet.

Then he spots the news van parked outside the front steps, and his heart sinks. The logo marks it as belonging to one of the local papers, the _Central City Citizen_ , and the one whose focus and readership skews most heavily to the “lifestyles of the rich and famous” crowd. Celebrity sightings, marriage-and-divorce rumors from the highest echelons of Central City families, Society pages. Just exactly the sort of rag who would take an already-titillating piece of news like a West asking a Thawne to marry _out_ and turn it into a full-blown scandal.

_And a quote from Iris’ foster brother would sure spice the pot._ Had Patty known, or just guessed, that the _Citizen_ would stalk out the precinct? Another thought strikes him: _Eddie! Joe!_

Barry hesitates, on the brink of going back inside. Then he sees the sleek black car roll past the mouth of the alley and park in front of the news van, accidentally-on-purpose cutting it off. Barry can’t see the livery, but he can guess. That’s a Thawne family car, and it probably contains at least one Thawne family PR expert. Eddie, at least, is taken care of.

“Joe already left,” Patty hisses, making Barry jump about three feet in the air. When had she come out behind him? “Look, you go down and around the building. I’ll hang out here in case someone tries to chase you.”

“Patty, you’re the best,” Barry says, heartfelt.

She waves this off. “Just run, Barry!”

Barry runs. He runs down the alley and around the building before the stitch in his side becomes unmanageable, and then slows to a jog for the last three blocks. His parking spot had _really_ sucked today, but maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. If he’d snagged one of the good spots in the lot across from the precinct there would have been no way to avoid the _Citizen._

All this fuss over someone getting married, or _not_ getting married. Just because they have Thawne in their name. It would be funny, if it weren’t going to be so tragic for Iris.

Barry cuts his driving route wide of the precinct and the rest of downtown, just to be safe. Thank goodness, there doesn’t seem to be news vans stalking the outside of the West residence. Long may that last. Barry parks on the street, clocks that Joe’s car and Iris’ motorcycle are both already in the driveway, and heads in.

Joe and Iris are sitting in the living room. The kitchen is quiet; no one’s started dinner. Joe is ignoring a beer, all his attention on Iris. Iris is staring down at her hands.

“Hi,” Barry says softly, unsure what to say or do.

Iris stirs. “Hi Barry,” she starts, then trails off.

“Come on in,” Joe says.

Barry, who as Joe’s adopted son _lives_ in the West household, interprets this correctly as a request to come sit down in the small living room with his adoptive sister and father. He settles himself as gently as he can and says, “Eddie talked to me at the precinct this morning.”

“It’s not like it’s a secret,” Iris says dully. “The _Citizen_ will be running a piece tomorrow.”

“Can Eddie’s family get a gag order?”

“For what? Invading our privacy? I took it outside the family when I went to ask Eddie’s cousin for his hand.”

Privacy laws end at the family border; that’s First Amendment 101. Barry grumbles mutinously but subsides at a look from Joe.

“I wouldn’t mind if they were spreading good news around,” Iris says miserably. “But this…”

Barry wants to give her a hug, but her body language is closed-off and uninviting. Instead he says, “What if Joe went to talk to Thawne? Or even me? My mom used to work for STAR Labs, he might still owe her a favor or something. Maybe we could get him to lower the price.”

“No,” Iris says. “This is my mess to deal with.”

“Falling in love isn’t a mess,” Barry objects.

“Falling in love with Eddie was.” Iris still isn’t looking up; if anything, she seems to slump further. “I should have known what was going to happen.”

“That’s not how family works,” Barry says, trying to be the voice of reason. “We all help each other. Remember? Look, let me talk to the guy. He’s supposed to be reasonable – ”

“No.” Now it’s Joe speaking. “I’m the head of this family. I’ll talk to him.” Joe shakes his head. “I don’t know what good it will do, but… I’ll talk to him.”

“Joe, I really think – ”

“Stay out of it, Bar.”

“Please, Barry,” Iris adds her voice to the plea. “I don’t want to seem desperate… we’ll think of another way.”

Barry barely manages to keep himself from cursing the West pride. There are times when he’s glad he’s an Allen by blood. As long as Iris gets to marry Eddie, who cares how it comes about? Barry wouldn’t, if it were he. But Iris does.

“Besides. We have time.” Iris sighs. “Thawne promised that he wouldn’t make Eddie marry someone else or provide an heir or any of that stuff. We could… theoretically, we could just… date. Indefinitely.”

Barry barely manages to keep his jaw from dropping. “But without a marriage…”

Iris’ expression tightens, stopping Barry from finishing that sentence.

Joe makes a choked-off sound. Barry looks over, but Joe isn’t look at him. Nor is he looking at Iris. He’s staring at the empty space on his left ring finger where a wedding band is conspicuously _not_ located. Francine, Iris’ mother, hadn’t been high society – not the way Eddie is high society – but she’d been higher than Joe West. Too high for a marriage. Joe had said to hell with Society, and Francine had said the same, and her family had been willing to look the other way. But that hadn’t been of any help when Francine had died in that car crash, along with the infant Wally. In the eyes of the law Francine had still been a Stewart at the time of her death. Everything she’d owned had reverted to the family, including the house she’d bought with Stewart family money, the savings accounts her name had been on, the car…

Barry considers pointing out that Iris can avoid making many of the same mistakes Joe and Francine had made. Separate accounts could have averted much of the financial pain. Death settlements could be made on non-family members. Children could be adopted.

But no piece of paper could have gained Joe the right to visit Francine in the hospital while she’d been fighting for her life. No legal deed would have given him the right to attend her funeral over her family’s objections. No settlement could have compelled the Stewart family to acknowledge Iris thereafter.

If Iris were a Stewart, chances are she could afford to marry Eddie. That’s on her mind too, probably. Certainly it’s on Joe’s.

“All I want is for you guys to be happy,” Joe says. _Helplessness_ isn’t something Barry is used to hearing from Joe. He doesn’t like it. “I guess I’ve been pretty bad at making that happen.”

Barry suddenly feels like an intruder. He’s been a member of the West family for years – longer if he counts the years he’d lived with them as a foster-son, before the formal adoption had taken place – and most of the time, Joe treats Barry like he had his own son. Most of the time, Iris treats Barry like her little brother. There have been times Barry has wished that that hasn’t been the case – like the awkward years during puberty when Barry had been convinced that he and Iris had been meant to be. But mostly it’s been comforting, the way the two surviving Wests and the one surviving Allen have come together to make a single family.

But the way Joe is looking at Iris, and the way Iris isn’t looking back, is somehow uniquely a West thing. Barry, who still has _Allen_ after his name, because adoption is all well and good but blood is blood in the eyes of the law – he doesn’t belong.

He stands, quickly enough that he nearly pitches headfirst into the coffee table. Barry catches himself on the arm of the chair. At least his sudden movement and near-disaster have had the effect of pulling both Joe’s and Iris’ attention onto him.

“I’m going to go pick up a pizza,” Barry says hastily. “I don’t think any of us want to cook. Peppers and onions sound good?”

“Yeah,” Iris says.

“Thanks, Barry,” Joe says.

“No problem.” Barry backpedals away. He’s still wearing his jacket; he hadn’t bothered to take it off. His wallet and keys are in his pockets. It only takes him a second to get out of the house.

It only takes a second for the brief disturbance he’d caused to disappear, swallowed up by the despondent atmosphere without so much as a ripple. Iris is back to staring at her hands before Barry’s even opened the door. Joe is back to staring at her, frustrated distress clear in the set of his shoulders. And Barry is back to wanting to kick something in frustration.

He’s sure that, if he could just talk to Eobard Thawne, they could work something out. Thawne is a scientist; surely he will respond to Barry’s rational arguments about the foolishness of classism and the importance of legal sanction for Eddie and Iris’ relationship. Thawne’s biography had talked about him being difficult and exacting but fundamentally reasonable. Nora Allen had worked at Thawne’s research lab; she couldn’t have done that if Thawne had been a pretentious idiot like most bluebloods. The more Barry thinks about it, the more sense it makes. But Joe and Iris won’t hear of it. They’re not being rational.

It takes half an hour to drive to the pizza joint, place the order, wait for it to cook, and bring it home. It takes another half an hour to eat the pizza in silence broken only by the occasional request to hand over a napkin or pass the red pepper. It only takes about fifteen minutes of all three of them sitting silently around the television before Barry admits defeat and retreats to his room. Iris’ footsteps can be heard going past his door mere minutes later. Barry listens for Joe, but he falls asleep three hours later before he hears him come up to bed.

Barry spends the whole evening trying to come up with a possible solution that would let Eddie and Iris marry without destroying one or both families. But when the sunlight wakes him up the next morning, bleeding in through the blinds he’d forgotten to close when he’d fallen asleep mid-thought, he’s still only got the one idea.

Joe and Iris won’t like it, but Barry owes them both a lot for taking him into their family. He won’t let them down now.

Today. He’s off work. He’ll do it today. He’ll go downtown and convince Eobard Thawne to let them marry.

Joe can yell all he wants. Iris will be happy, and that’s the important thing.

Mind made up, Barry digs in his closet for his nicest shirt. He’s got a blueblood to visit.


	2. Chapter 2

Barry isn’t doing anything wrong – he’s confident of that – but he still sneaks out of the West household the following morning. There’s confidence while alone in his room, and then there’s confidence in the face of Joe West’s legendary Disapproving Face. Barry has learned the hard way that it’s better not to test himself against the latter.

That means Barry leaves without breakfast, which necessitates a stop at Jitters. Coffee turns into a breakfast sandwich turns into an existential crisis in the middle of the coffee shoppe. Is Barry really doing the right thing? Is he _really?_ It’s been decades since Nora had worked at STAR Labs, and that’s Barry’s only tenuous connection to the man he’s about to try and go see. A man who must have random people trying to get five minutes with him all the time. How is Barry even going to get into Thawne Industries? He hasn’t thought this through. He’s going to mess this up, get thrown out, hurt Iris’ chances _farther_ –

The group of women sitting at the table next to Barry’s get up, toting their coffee cups but leaving their napkins and newspapers behind. One of them had been reading the society pages of the _Citizen._ Morosely, Barry picks them up, sees the headline, and winces.

Okay. So maybe Iris’ chances can’t get much worse.

Barry thinks of Iris sitting on the couch with her shoulders slumped. Thinks of Joe West looking at his empty ring finger. Saying, _All I want is for you guys to be happy._

 _Right._ Barry squares his shoulders and pushes the newspaper aside. Iris and Joe may be worried about saving face over this, but that’s their business. Barry is an Allen by blood, and he cares about results.

_Let’s go._

* * *

The pep talk from Jitters is enough to carry Barry the rest of the way to Thawne Industries and even into the front door. It wilts abruptly when Barry finds himself trying to explain his business to the security desk on the main floor.

“So you’re saying you _don’t_ have an appointment,” the receptionist says skeptically.

Barry, on the point of losing his nerve again, sees the security guard pick up _her_ copy of the _Central City Citizen._ “Not today,” he says, which is technically not a lie but may possibly convey the inaccurate impression that he has had an appointment in the past, or currently has an appointment for the future. “That’s what I need to get sorted out, so if you could just – ”

The receptionist reaches for her keyboard. “Let me just check you against the schedule, then…”

Barry has to fight back a wince. She’s called his bluff. Desperately he opens his mouth, then shuts it again. What’s he going to do, confess to his little white not-even-a-lie? Maybe he can claim that the computer system is messing up.

 _Fat chance._ This isn’t the CCPD system, an ancient COBOL-coded menace running on computers that look as though they’re longing for the halcyon days of punched cards. The receptionist’s computer, as with all the other technology in view, is sleek, modern, and probably contains enough processing power in its calendar application to run the entire CCPD evidence database in its spare time.

“Allen, Bartholomew Henry,” the receptionist announces, interrupting Barry’s increasingly desperate thoughts. He nearly jumps. Then he jumps again when she slaps a clipboard and a visitor’s badge on the counter in front of Barry. “You’re on the standing list, that’s why you don’t have an appointment. Next time just say so. I’ll need to see some photo ID.”

Barry nearly drops his wallet fumbling for his license. He has no idea what’s just happened, and he’s afraid to ask. His handwriting is uneven as he signs the log from how his hand is shaking. He had frankly expected to have to argue a _lot_ more to get in. He’d been debating the relative merits of citing his involvement with the CCPD. This ready acquiescence has him on edge.

The receptionist takes his license and passes it over to one of the security guards, who scans it and spends a few minutes studying her terminal before nodding curtly and passing the license back. The receptionist takes the clipboard back from Barry and gives him a lanyard for the badge. “Take the elevator all the way to the left, it’s the only one that goes all the way up. Top floor. Entering further into this facility constitutes consent to monitoring, which you may refuse by departing now.”

“I, uh, no thanks,” Barry stammers. He drapes the lanyard around his neck and turns towards the elevators. Then, because he does in fact have manners, he turns back and says, “Thank you.”

The receptionist’s eyebrows climb again. “You’re welcome.”

There’s a bunch of people waiting by the elevators, and Barry tries to blend in, but the minute he steps forward to press the separate button attached to the separate plate for the elevator all the way on the left it feels like everyone’s eyes are on him. The situation only intensifies when his elevator arrives first and he steps onto it. Alone. Barry studies the elevator panel with great interest until the doors finally close, blocking them out.

Inside the elevator there’s only one button. It’s a freaking express elevator. Jesus Christ. Barry presses the button and tries to breathe deeply, an endeavor complicated by the fact that the elevator promptly shoots upwards at what feels like Mach 1.

 _Think of Iris,_ Barry tells himself. _Think of Eddie. Think of Joe._

The elevator _ding_ s.

Barry steps out and promptly sinks into carpet all the way to his knees, or at least, that’s how it feels. He wades through the thicket, past the wood-paneled walls, the incredibly expensive-looking sitting nook, and the freaking water wall (!) with embedded soft lighting and an embossed Thawne Industries logo. Barry has never in his life been more aware of the fact that his clothes come from a department store and he gets his hair cut in the mall. Jesus _Christ._

“Mr. Allen?”

The speaker is a woman, sharply-dressed, sitting behind an enormous desk set in front of another rendition of the Thawne Industries logo. Because apparently the one logo and the water wall aren’t enough. She smiles at Barry over her laptop, nicely enough, and says, “Dr. Thawne is just wrapping up another meeting. He’ll be with you in a moment, if you’d care to wait?”

She gestures to the seating nook. Barry turns to eye it, considers the relative merits of wading back to it through the knee-high carpet, and says, “Thanks. I’ll stand, if that’s all right.”

“Fine with me,” the woman says cheerfully enough. She turns back to her computer, but her eyes keep flicking over to Barry every few moments.

“Are you Dr. Thawne’s assistant?” Barry asks. It’s a somewhat inane question, but she seems like she’d be up for conversation, and it will keep Barry’s mind off his nerves.

“One of them. There’s three of us, we specialize. I handle the administrative side.” She holds out her hand. “Sally Gideon.”

“Barry Allen,” he replies, shaking her hand.

“I know.” Sally grins. “You won me three thousand bucks in the office pool.”

“Three – ” Barry shuts his mouth before he can sound like any more of a rube. Three _thousand?_ The biggest CCPD office pool Barry’s ever heard of had surrounded the betting on Singh’s wedding, and that had barely topped three _hundred_.

“Yeah, everyone else thought Joe West would be the one to show up.” Sally’s grin turns conspiratorial. “Joke’s on them. My mom was a Garrick, so as soon as I saw your name appear on the visitor’s list, I knew you’d beat West.”

“Oh, nice,” Barry says, responding with some relief to the tenuous family connection. “Who was your mom?”

“Hélène. Your dad was Henry, right?”

“Yeah.” Hélène had been a second cousin, if Barry remembers right. That would have made Barry and Sally third cousins, if they’d both been Garricks. Of course, since they’re not, they’re no relation at all.

Then something else Sally had said tickles Barry’s mind. “My name – the receptionist said my name was on the daily list, but – ”

“Mmm _hmm._ ” She taps at something on her laptop and nods. “You, Iris West, Joe West. Just put in yesterday. Standing entry.”

Standing entry. That son of a bitch. Yesterday – that would be right after Iris had asked Thawne for Eddie’s hand, and been refused. Eobard Thawne had _known_ someone would come.

Barry isn’t bearding the lion in his den. Barry is _lunch_ for the lion _._

_I should go. This was a bad idea._

Naturally, that’s when the door buzzes.

“Dr. Thawne will see you now,” Sally says blandly.

Barry hesitates. Then he thinks of Iris, of Eddie, and makes himself walk into the room beyond Sally’s desk.

Eobard Thawne is sitting behind a desk of his own. It’s large and ultramodern in design and, along with the rest of the room and the man himself, looks as if it’s just stepped off the pages of a magazine. When Thawne gestures Barry to a chair, his cufflinks flash in the discreet lighting. The creases of his suit – dark grey, with a white shirt and no tie – look sharp enough to cut.

“Mr. Allen,” Thawne says, politely enough, though not at all warmly. “How may I assist you today?”

“It’s, uh – ” Barry makes himself stop talking before he can say something inane, like _please don’t get my father fired for what I’m about to say._ Which Thawne could actually do. He golfs with the police commissioner, doesn’t he? No – wait – not golf. Chess. Thawne plays chess.

Oh _God._

“Yes?” Thawne’s desk is surprisingly uncluttered. A small stack of paper is arranged neatly in one corner. A keyboard sits pushed underneath a thin-screen monitor at an angle to Thawne’s chair. None of that impedes Thawne’s gaze, which is legendarily difficult to meet, and currently trained unrelentingly on Barry.

Barry more falls into the chair across from Thawne than sits in it, but he ends up in the chair instead of the floor, which he’ll count as a win. _Get a grip, idiot. Or you’ll have to go home and tell Iris you’re available to help her move her stuff back home from Eddie’s tomorrow._

That thought, and the thought of the corresponding look on Iris’ face, are what galvanize Barry into action. He takes a steadying breath. “Dr. Thawne, thank you for seeing me. I’m here to speak with you on behalf of my sister.”

“You mean Iris West.”

It’s a statement, but the slight upward inflection on Barry’s name gives him excuse enough, he judges, to keep talking.

Well. That, and the fact that Thawne hasn’t had him thrown out yet. “I’m adopted.”

“Hm.” Thawne tips his head slightly to one side, and his gaze unfocuses slightly. Barry resists the urge to relax. This turns out to be a good thing, as Thawne’s gaze snaps back into focus and onto Barry barely a moment later. “But you _are_ Nora Allen’s son?”

Barry can’t stop his eyes from widening. “How do you – ”

“I knew your mother.”

He _knew_ – “From when she used to work at STAR Labs?”

“And before.” When Barry continues to stare at Thawne, wide-eyed, Thawne elaborates. “We were in the same doctoral program. When I started my own lab, I invited her to join me. She wasn’t a random hire. I considered her a friend.”

Barry feels his lips part in astonishment. Thawne had _known_ his mother? “I didn’t know that.”

“It was before you were born. For that matter, it was before she was married.” Thawne frowns. “You did know she worked at STAR Labs, though?”

“Yes, but…” Barry hesitates, fearful of giving offense – he’s going to piss Thawne off enough when he asks about Eddie’s dowry-price, there’s really no need to start now. “I thought it was just a job.”

“You mean she never said a word about me,” Thawne says with disconcerting insight. He smiles then, which doesn’t do much to put Barry at ease. “Relax, Mr. Allen. I’m not offended. Some friendships are the product of circumstance, and drift apart when those circumstances alter. How many people from high school do you still keep in touch with?”

“No one,” Barry has to admit.

“There you have it then. Your mother left STAR Labs to return to academia. It was always her first love, as I recall. She gave industry a try because I asked her to.” Thawne’s smile turns rueful. “And because the compensation package was compelling, of course. But she was right; it wasn’t for her. I intended to stay in touch… but, well. These things happen.” Thawne’s gaze has gone distant again. Sadness touches his expression briefly. “I was sorry to learn of her loss.”

Barry nods, temporarily unable to speak.

“And your father’s, I believe?”

“Yes, I – everyone.” Barry has to clear his throat. “All my family.”

“Which is how you come to count Iris West as a sister.”

“Yes. Which is why I wanted to speak with you – ”

“Why adoption?”

“What?”

Thawne leans back in his chair, studying Barry intently. “Nora was a full professor, and that came after several lucrative years at STAR Labs. Your father was a Garrick. There must have been an inheritance. I assume it was held in trust while you were a minor. Upon coming of age, you could have taken your inheritance, married a nice young lady, and set about repopulating the Allen family.”

“That’s what the court-appointed lawyer suggested,” Barry says. “But… I know it sounds weird, but I never had a lot of family pride. It wasn’t something my parents really went in for. And trying to keep my family alive – it was – I couldn’t do it. It was like I was living surrounded by their ghosts, instead of getting on with my own life.” Barry shivers. Thawne is still scrutinizing him; Barry makes himself meet that gaze head-on. “When I turned eighteen I applied for the adoption. I’m a West. And it’s in that capacity that I have come to speak with you today.”

“Then speak.” Thawne straightens, settling loosely-clasped hands on the desk in front of him and giving Barry what appears to be his full attention.

“My sister asked you for Eddie’s hand in marriage. You refused – ”

Thawne holds up a hand. “I did not refuse.”

Barry grits his teeth. “You refused to set a price she could pay.”

“And you’ve come to ask me to lower that price.”

“That’s right.”

Thawne doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he says, “I told Iris that I would be happy to welcome her into my family, and pay a more than fair marriage-price. But I am given to understand that that is not possible?”

“There are no other Wests,” Barry says. “Her mother and brother were killed in a car accident. Iris is the only heir. The only _blood_ heir,” he corrects bitterly.

Thawne nods. “If Iris leaves the West family, it will be dissolved on Joe West’s death.”

“I mentioned that the Wests have a lot of pride,” Barry says. “I – look, you’ll just have to take my word for it. It would break Joe. Just destroy him, to have his family dissolved.”

“Less important than whether _I_ believe this is so is whether Iris West believes this is so. I must conclude that she shares your certainty.”

“She’ll break her own heart before she breaks Joe’s,” Barry says with finality. “That’s why I’m here, Dr. Thawne. She’s getting ready to give Eddie up for her father’s sake. Or worse. I’m asking you – no, I’m _begging_ you – to let Eddie marry into the West family.”

Thawne sighs, looking and sounding genuinely regretful. “I have already had this discussion with your sister, Mr. Allen, and we discovered that there was no price I could set that she would be able to meet.”

“But that’s – surely you have some flexibility!”

“Yes, I have some flexibility, but not enough to matter.” At Barry’s incredulous look, Thawne says, “Your sister gave me to understand that two million might as well be four, as regards her ability to pay.”

Barry fights to keep his jaw attached to his skull. _I thought Eddie said one point two!_ “Four _million_?”

Thawne’s gaze is compassionate, but unyielding. “Did you think a Thawne came cheaply?”

“What on earth could possibly rate such a price?” Barry cries.

“As Eddie’s wife, Iris would gain access to the highest echelons of Society,” Thawne says sternly. “Every door would be open. Every advantage hers. Her relations – including yourself, Mr. Allen – would become attractive mates to other powerful families. Her career and earning prospects would radically rise. No favor would be too large, no loan too generous. It would transform every facet of her life. Thus, the high price.” When Barry continues to gape, Thawne raises an eyebrow. “You disagree?”

“You are the head of the Thawne family,” Barry says tightly, holding his temper in check to the best of his ability. “You have sole discretion over the price. You don’t have to set it that high!”

“If you were I, you’d do the same.”

“If I were you, I’d set the price at something Iris can afford,” Barry snaps. “I’d be more concerned about _happiness_ than about all the social bullshit you think is so important!”

Thawne’s eyes blaze blue, and for a moment Barry thinks he’s gone too far. Then their light goes out. In the resulting seeming dimness, Thawne looks tired.

“If you were Eddie, and I were Joe West, I would let Iris go for nothing more than your promise that you’d never make her cry,” he says quietly. “Unfortunately, I am not Joe West, who may focus all of his care on his only child and shrug off the concerns of the world. I am Eobard Thawne. There are twenty-four Thawnes aged two to ninety-one, and all of them, from the youngest to the eldest, are under my protection.”

“How does Eddie marrying Iris hurt them?” Barry cries.

“At every turn in this world, Mr. Allen, there are gates. And the key to each of those gates is privilege. Whether it’s entry into a particular private school, or the landing of a prestigious internship, or getting the investment necessary to starting one’s own company.” Thawne shakes his head slowly. “Surely you can look back on your own life and think about the ways in which things could have gone more smoothly. Surely you can look to some of your less fortunate friends and see the way in which their lives diverged from yours, because they did not have the advantages you have.”

Barry has to try three times before he can say something that isn’t _you son of a bitch._ “And this is the system you will destroy Eddie’s happiness to protect.”

“This is the system that will destroy the happiness of _everyone_ in my charge, unless I work within it.”

“Privilege doesn’t buy happiness.”

“Try being happy without it.”

“And so you’ll perpetuate this system – ”

“I don’t control the system, Mr. Allen. I simply must exist within it. As we all must. If it were gone, it would be a different story. But it exists. I was given responsibility for a family at the pinnacle of society. If I fail to keep my family there, I will be to blame for the destruction of every Thawne’s happiness.”

“Break the system,” Barry demands.

Thawne shakes his head. “It cannot be done.”

Barry tries to find something to say to this. He fails.

“Let me ask a question of my own,” Thawne says. “Why are you here?”

Barry blinks. Isn’t that self-evident?

Thawne clarifies. “I know what you came to ask me to do. But I don’t know why. Why do this?”

How to explain so that Thawne will understand? “Joe and Iris took me in,” Barry tries. “Gave me a home. Gave me a family. Helped me heal after everyone else I called family died. Any happiness I might ever have is thanks to them. I owe them.”

“And thus you will pay your debts.” There’s something new in Thawne’s voice; incautiously Barry looks up, to find his gaze caught and held. “Balancing the happiness of one against the happiness of others, seeking the best good of all… you almost sound like me, Mr. Allen.”

“There’s no need to insult me,” Barry retorts before he can think.

Thawne grins. It’s the first remotely glad emotion Barry’s seen Thawne express. He finds it horrifying.

“I respect what you came to me to do,” Thawne begins.

“But you won’t go along with it,” Barry finishes.

Thawne’s grin softens, becomes something approaching a smile. Unthinkingly, Barry stares at it. The smile isn’t horrifying. It’s almost… sweet. “Your proposed way out is infeasible. But I think I have another one.”

Barry crosses his arms over his chest. “You’ll lower Eddie’s price?”

“Better. I’ll give you the means to pay it.” Thawne takes something off of the single low stack of paper on his desk. A folder. Thawne slides it towards Barry and waits.

“What is this?” Barry asks warily.

“It’s an offer, Mr. Allen. Of employment.”

“Employment.”

“Yes,” Thawne says. “I am offering you the opportunity to join the STAR Labs team.”

Barry closes his eyes and counts to ten, slowly. Opening them, he says, precisely, “And what is it that has led you to believe that, after the conversation we have just had, I would be inclined to accept any such thing?”

“The _nature_ of the conversation we have just had.” Thawne taps the folder with one long finger. “I suggest you review the offer, Mr. Allen, paying particular attention to the compensation package.”

Barry stares at Thawne, trying to figure out what his game is. Then his gaze tracks slowly downward to the folder.

Even more slowly, he reaches out and pulls it towards him. Flips it open.

The first page is boilerplate. Barry discards it almost immediately. _S.T.A.R. Labs LLC, a division of Thawne Industries, is pleased to extend the following offer, et cetera, et cetera._

The second page is the financial terms.

The second page –

“Three hundred thousand dollars per annum,” Thawne says. “That’s after taxes and other withholding, by the way. All TI salaries are quoted on a take-home basis. I find quoting gross salaries to be intellectually and financially dishonest. There is also a signing bonus equal to one year’s salary.”

Barry’s mouth goes dry. “This – this is outrageous.”

“It’s on the high end of the salary band for your position, but not unheard-of. Since I _am_ offering so high, however, the contract comes with a minimum service term.”

Barry flips back to the first page, the one he’d discarded as boiler-plate. There it is, halfway down the page. “Three years.”

“The contract does have an out clause for you, but the financial penalties would be stiff. You’ll want to have your lawyer review it, of course.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

“Then I’ll provide one.”

Barry swallows. “Then how could I trust them?”

Thawne’s distaste is clear on his face. “I do not employ any counsel who would be so dishonest, Mr. Allen, and that’s before one takes into account the legalities involved. Regardless of who is paying, a lawyer’s duty is to their client.”

Barry has to look away from the force of that disapproval. _And I thought Joe’s Disapproving Face was bad._ That leaves him looking back down at the first page again, and another clause catches his eye. “Option for lump sum payment?”

“This contract is for an usually long duration, and the financial penalties for breaking it are – intentionally – prohibitive. In acknowledgement of that, Thawne Industries offers you the option to receive, as a lump sum up front, the entirety of the compensation you would receive over the contract period. This permits you to invest and otherwise grow the sum as you see fit. Any profits you may realize constitute a bonus.”

“Three years,” Barry says flatly.

Thawne smiles.

“At a salary of three hundred thousand dollars a year.”

“Take-home,” Thawne clarifies.

“Plus a signing bonus of one year’s salary – another three hundred thousand dollars.”

Thawne reaches down and opens a drawer below Barry’s line of sight, never once taking his eyes away from Barry. From that drawer he produces a checkbook. He sets it on the table between them.

“One point two million dollars,” Barry concludes.

“Payable immediately and in full upon the signing of that contract,” Thawne agrees. “At which point the money becomes yours to do with as you please.”

“Such as – ”

“As you please.”

Barry blinks. Then he blinks again. Then he wrenches his gaze away from Thawne, which takes an effort even greater than Barry had bargained for.

One point two million dollars. That figure is not an accident. Nor are the terms of the contract. A three-year contract, plus signing bonus, with the right to demand the money up front. Carefully engineered, in short, to make sure Barry walks out of here today with the money for Eddie’s life-price in his pocket.

“You had this ready for me,” Barry says numbly. “You knew I would be coming.”

“I told you I hadn’t refused Ms. West permission to marry,” Eobard says. “She simply misunderstood the nature of my agreement.”

“That’s why I was on the visitor’s list. Why Joe and Iris were too.”

“I was fairly sure one of you would come back,” Thawne says, and grins, “if only to yell at my for my hard-heartedness.”

Barry has to look away from that smile. “If you can do this,” he says to the piece of paper he’s holding, “why not just cut the dowry-price?”

“Eddie’s price must be seen to be high,” Thawne says. “This satisfies the demands of Society, and still clears a path for – how did you so charmingly put it? – Eddie’s happiness. And Iris’, I trust.”

“And no one will realize you’ve done this?” Barry’s hands are shaking. Carefully he puts the top sheet of paper back on the stack. “It won’t be immediately obvious that my hiring is just a clever way for Iris to afford Eddie?”

“Timing is everything. If we announce your hiring today, and suddenly tomorrow Eddie and Iris are engaged, of course it would look suspicious. Ah, but if we reverse the two events…” Barry looks up in time to see a chilly smile appear on Thawne’s lips.

“So Eddie and Iris get engaged, and a few days later you hire Iris’ brother.” Barry wets his lips. “ _That’s_ not suspicious?”

“Nepotism? Hardly.” Thawne shrugs, dismissive. “Happens every day.”

Barry doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He does neither, which takes all of his effort.

“I have another meeting. You can use this room to consult with your lawyer.” Thawne touches his phone, and a moment later the far door opens.

Sally Gideon sticks her head in. “Yes, boss?”

“Mr. Allen requires legal review of a document. You are seconded to him and are to act in his best interests when dispensing advice.”

“Of course,” she says. Even Barry, who had just met her a few minutes ago, can tell that she’s ruffled at her boss thinking she needs to be _told_ to behave honestly.

Thawne’s smile becomes a trifle more real. “He was worried,” he says by way of explanation, then rises. “I should only be an hour. Mr. Allen, if you need more time, naturally you may have it, though Sally has other duties.”

“Thank you,” Barry says automatically.

Thawne’s lips quirk. “My pleasure.”

Sally steps back to let Thawne go by, then comes in and pulls up another chair. “What have you got there?”

* * *

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Barry has a pounding headache within the hour.

Sally goes through the document with a keep eye and a sharp wit. Once Barry had gotten over his surprise at the mere fact of an employment contract, and Sally’s being a lawyer (“What did you _think_ administrative meant? Eobard Thawne can fill out his own calendar”), he puts himself in Sally’s hands and hopes for the best.

“That’s all that sorted,” she says at last, leaning back. The employment contract is now marked up in several places with red pen. Sally has assured Barry that the changes are relatively minor and likely to be agreed to without argument, though Barry is still nervous. He isn’t sure how far he can press without making this offer go up in smoke. Hell, half the time he still thinks he’s dreaming.

He’s not going to sign anything that compromises his morals, but other than that, it’s an offer he can’t very well refuse.

“Now there’s just one other thing,” Sally continues. “The compensation package. I’m worried it’s too small.”

Something approximating an hysterical laugh comes out of Barry’s mouth. “Too _small_?”

“This is _very_ precisely engineered. I’m not asking, but I assume there’s something you need exactly one point two million dollars for, and this is designed to get it to you.”

“What makes you say that?” Barry demands, heart lurching in his chest.

“Your take-home salary is exactly three hundred thousand.”

“Thawne said you always quote take-home!”

Sally rolls her eyes. “Yes, we always quote take-home, but we usually _start_ with a round number and then calculate taxes and benefits and so forth. It’s much easier than starting with a take-home number and then working the equation backwards to figure a gross. Usually people’s salary offers are something like, oh, $287,654.02. Not an even figure like $300,000.”

“Ah,” Barry says in a small voice.

“Relax. I’m your counsel in this matter, remember? You have privilege, even if Eobard’s paying. I wouldn’t bring it up, except that it implies that you’re planning to part with your salary pretty much entirely. Am I right? You have somewhere you want this money to go, and it’s going to take it all?”

“And if you were?” Barry asks, guardedly.

Sally sets down her red pen and raises an eyebrow. “Then I’d ask you how you plan to eat for the next three years.”

 _Shit._ “Uh, well, I… uh.”

“Just as I thought.” Sally picks up her pen again and starts flipping through the offered contract. “You scientists, you’re all alike. Bet you Eobard didn’t think about this either. Well, in his case, it’s not like he needs his income to eat…”

“Thawne family money probably pays for all of that, even if he never works another day in his life,” Barry says, somewhat bitterly.

Sally shrugs. “Yes. He has the oddest blind spots. He knows it, I’ll say that for him. That’s probably why he told you have someone else look this over.”

“So – do I ask for more money?”

“You could,” Sally says distractedly, scribbling something, “but if you take my advice, you’ll ask for an essential material rider.”

“What’s an essential material rider?”

“It’s an added clause to this contract that stipulates that STAR Labs, or Thawne Industries as a whole, will provide any and all essential materials you need to do your job.”

“Including _food_?”

Sally laughs, not unkindly. “No, not food. But transportation to and from work – so you’ll get reimbursed for your bus pass, or your gas and parking, if you drive. Office supplies. Clothes.”

“Clothes?” Barry looks down at himself, then up at Sally. Contrasting his decent but off-the-rack slacks and button-down with her obviously tailored suit makes him wince. “Is there a dress code?”

“Yes, which is why you’d get to bill STAR Labs the cost of meeting it. And it’s not just for working in the office. As a member of STAR Labs’ elite think-tank, you’ll also have certain social obligations. There are exhibitions held for shareholders, open days for the public, galas for big donors – that’s just the start. Do you have any idea what formalwear will cost you for those events?”

“No,” Barry says truthfully. “Though I think I’m starting to imagine.”

Sally makes another note, then caps her pen. “So we ask for a materials rider. You don’t gain any extra disposable income – you can’t use it to take your date to the movies – but you won’t be caught off-guard when you need three new silk ties on two hours’ notice.”

“I don’t have a date,” Barry says, “so that doesn’t bother me.”

“Okay then.” Sally scans the documents one more time with a jaundiced eye, then nods. “Anything else?”

“Should I sign it?”

Sally pauses. Then she lays the documents down and gives Barry her full attention.

“I don’t know all the details of your situation,” she says slowly. “I can guess. If I were guessing, I’d guess that you have a pressing reason to need one point two million dollars, and relatively quickly. At least, you don’t want to wait three years for it.”

“I don’t,” Barry agrees, thinking of Eddie and Iris trying to weather those years without official sanction.

“In that case, I recommend you sign it,” Sally says decisively. “It’s a strict contract, but a fair one, all things considered. I can’t speak to whether you can do the job, but this contract doesn’t actually bind you to a particular job _description_. If you can’t do what Dr. Thawne has in mind, he has to find you something else within the organization, and you retain the right to refuse transfers if you can’t or won’t fill a particular role. If you have no philosophical or moral objections to working for Thawne Industries, I don’t see what would hold you back. It’s the best offer you’re likely to get for the kind of money you’ll need.”

Barry nods slowly. _For Iris,_ he thinks. _For Eddie._

There’s a brief knock, then the door opens and Thawne reenters his office.

“My meeting ran a little longer than I anticipated,” he says by way of explanation. “How have you been faring, Mr. Allen?”

“I – it’s a generous offer,” Barry manages. _It’s an offer I can’t refuse._

Thawne holds out a hand. Sally passes him the marked-up documents. He skims them quickly, nodding to himself.

“I see no issues here,” Thawne says. He hands the documents back to Sally. “Are there any questions you wish to ask me personally?”

“No, that’s – no.”

“Perhaps you’d like to hear more about the job description,” Sally suggests meaningfully.

“Or what about a tour of STAR Labs?” Thawne offers.

“No. I don’t need any of that.”

Sally and Thawne exchange looks. “All right,” Thawne says carefully. “We’ll validate these markups through legal and get a new copy drawn up. You can take some time, talk to your family. There’s a three-day window on the offer – ”

“No,” Barry blurts out. He knows, intellectually, that Thawne’s right. It would be better not to rush this. To think through everything this means. Changing jobs is a big deal. Leaving behind the CCPD – but three days of _thinking it through_ would be three days of watching Iris try not to show how much she’s hurting. And that’s if Barry _doesn’t_ tell her about Thawne’s offer. If he does –

If he does, she’ll never believe Barry would make this choice on his own. She’ll always think she’s pressured him into it, just by being around him. She’ll always feel guilty.

The truth is, Barry owes Iris. Owes Joe. For taking him in. For letting him be one of them. For giving him back a family after he’d lost the one he’d been born into. Next to the opportunity to help them in return, nothing else is important.

_And thus I will pay my debts._

“Get that new copy,” Barry says in determination. “And a pen.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to elrhiarhodan, for getting me unstuck on this chapter when I had run it straight into a wall!

_Two days earlier_

Iris West storms out of Eobard’s office, furious and broken-hearted. Eobard sighs.

 _She’ll be back. In fact –_ Eobard touches the phone for his assistant.

“Yes, Dr. Thawne?” Gideon asks with her usual cheer.

“Please have Iris West placed on the visitor’s list for Thawne Industries,” he says. Then he considers further. “And any other members of the West family.”

“Right away,” she says. There’s a pause and the sound of fingers tapping. “Doctor? Public databases list a Barry Allen as a member of the family. It appears to be a legal adoption. Would you like him added to the visitor’s list as well?”

Allen? Barry _Allen_? It’s not an uncommon surname, there are three Allen families Eobard can think of off the top of his head, but – “Any relation to Nora Allen?”

“I can check.”

“Nora was an employee here. A long time ago. Her records will be in the database.”

“Hold one.” Sally goes back to typing, then gives vent to a low whistle over the phone. “Yes, they’re related. Her son.”

What has happened that Nora’s son looks to Joe West as his family head? “Put Barry Allen on the list. Then run a background check on him. I want to know how he ended up as a West.”

“Visitor passes are done,” Sally says. Another series of taps are audible over the excellent phone line. “Background check in progress. Email on completion?”

“Please,” Eobard says, and hangs up.

Sally Gideon is worth her weight in gold. Eobard is just hanging up from his usual afternoon telecon when he hears the _ping_ of Barry Allen’s digital file appearing in his inbox.

Eobard sets his phone to go straight to voicemail – Gideon will scold him for that later, but what else is new – and opens it eagerly. Biographical information first. Bartholomew Henry Allen, head of the Allen family – legally a cadet branch of the West family, as a result of Barry’s adoption. Direct son of the previous head, Nora Allen. Father had been a Garrick. Yes, Eobard remembers something about that. He and Nora hadn’t succeeded in staying in touch for long after Nora had left STAR Labs, but Nora’s marriage had come during those first few years when contact had been extant, though sporadic. Nora had sent an invitation to the wedding. Eobard had sent a gift. Considered attending, but work had kept him away. Their paths had diverged for good not too long after that. He hadn’t known she’d had a son.

He hadn’t known she’d died.

Eobard reads about her death, feeling his lips press tight and his eyes want to close in reflected horror. A home invasion? In Central City? With all the money his family has dumped into the police force – they’d caught the men after, but what good had that done Nora, stabbed to death in her own home? Or Henry, killed trying to defend her, or…

Barry Allen, aged nine, had been the sole survivor of his family. The Garricks had offered to take the boy in trust, as his closest relatives, but Nora’s will had also named the Wests as valid caretakers. The Wests and the Allens had apparently been close friends. Young Barry and young Iris especially, Eobard notes. The boy had preferred to go with his friend’s family than his father’s birth family. No real surprise there. A DNA test might name Barry cousin to the Garricks, but Eobard doubts whether the boy had ever met them above once or twice in his life. That isn’t how families work. Henry had married out, and that would have been that. Only think of the chaos if birth families could retain a claim on children who’d married out…

Eobard shakes his head, returning to the present. The surprise in Barry Allen’s history isn’t that he’d chosen to foster with the Wests. It’s that he’d chosen, on his eighteenth birthday, to seek a legal adoption. Instead of taking what had remained of the Allens’ assets and marrying to rebuild his family line, he’d chosen to essentially dissolve it. Barry may retain the surname _Allen_ , an indicator of his bloodline, but he will be the last.

Eobard closes the file, shaken. It’s a lot to take in. He and Nora hadn’t stayed in touch, but that doesn’t mean they hadn’t been close once. They’d survived grad school together. Weathered the early years of STAR Labs together. He’s saddened she’s dead. He’s even more saddened to learn that her family has apparently died with her. That her only child is, apparently, uncaring of Nora’s legacy.

Speaking of legacy – _how didn’t I know about this?_ Now that Eobard’s looking, he can see that the deaths of the Allen family had been a minor media spectacle, coming as they had done on the heels of a long downswing in violent crime in Central City. There had been profiles on the deceased. On the killer. On the trial. Even a set of new laws passed in response. Eobard scrolls through the city council minutes and sees that his niece had voted _yea_. Eobard’s family had been aware. Just not Eobard himself. _How?_

The date – this had all happened fourteen years ago. Eobard closes his eyes, trying to remember. What had he been… oh. That had been right at the same time Thomas and Martha Wayne had been killed. Emilia Thawne had sent Eobard, then her heir, to Gotham, to pay their family’s respects and represent their stake in Wayne Industries. That rat Earle had been trying to seize power on the W.I. board, which would have been a slippery slope to him taking control of the company as a whole, locking the Wayne heir out entirely. Eobard had been there to protect both the Thawne family’s investment and the personal interests of young Bruce. Bruce’s grandmother had been a Thawne; there had been family blood involved. The legal fight had dragged out for months and turned exceedingly nasty before Earle had finally been ousted and Lucius Fox established in his place. By the time Eobard had gotten back to Central City, exhausted but triumphant, the Allens’ murderer had been safely behind bars and the public attention had moved on to something else.

Eobard had missed it. He’d missed it entirely.

He does his best to put it from his mind, and disciplines himself to go back to his paperwork. He likes his work, he truly does, even if these days it skews more towards management than the pure science that is his truest love. As head of the family, he has to oversee their entire financial empire, not just the parts of it that are directly his. But there’s a perverse imp on his shoulder today, for the first document he picks up turns out to be the yearly budget for STAR Labs.

STAR Labs. Eobard sets the budget back down on the pile, and gives in to the urge to stroke the logo fondly. STAR Labs is his in a way very few Thawne properties are, even the ones that he owns directly. It had been his graduation gift on the occasion of his receiving his Ph.D.. Not the lab itself, but the funding to start it. Eobard hadn’t been able to believe his ears when his mother had told him she would be signing a significant family trust over to him entirely.

“To use as you see fit, my son _,_ ” she’d promised. “There will be no oversight. No checkpoints. If you bankrupt yourself, that will be entirely your own doing. But I think you will succeed.” She’d bent then – Emilia Thawne had been a tall woman – and kissed Eobard’s cheek, a rare show of physical affection in a family that is cool even by blueblood standards. “I am proud of you, Eobard.”

Eobard had never really doubted that he would succeed, but the magnitude of his success had surprised even him. He’d recruited the brightest of the few friends and rather more acquaintances he’d made during his doctorate and set out to change the world…

 _We certainly did that, didn’t we?_ The ink of the STAR Labs logo is cool under his fingers, tactily distinct from the smoothness of the unmarked paper around it. Nowadays, STAR Labs is a byword for reliable cutting-edge research and transition into real, livable projects. Starting out, of course, they’d been young and untried. They’d had something to prove. But even then it had taken only a few short years before their first major breakthrough.

Nora Allen had been a big part of that breakthrough. Eobard owes that early team much. All of the other members of that team had stayed in touch. Some had stayed at STAR Labs, riding their success to ever more prominent and lucrative positions. Others had made good marriages and stayed in Eobard’s sphere. Still others had branched out into business of their own, and enjoy good relationships with the greater Thawne Industries. One thing they all have in common is that they’d made hay of their early success, and of Eobard’s gratitude. All of them except Nora Allen. She’d died young, but Eobard doesn’t fool himself. She had never intended to cash in that debt.

And now Nora’s son is Iris West’s sister. And Iris West has just been in Eobard’s office. Asking for a favor. Asking that Eobard lower Eddie’s price to something she can afford, and damn the consequences to the rest of the family.

Eobard shakes his head at himself. _You would never have been able to start STAR Labs if your family hadn’t had a small fortune they could sign over to you without impacting everyone else,_ he reminds himself. _Friendship aside, if your name hadn’t been Thawne, how many people would have agreed to come work for you? How many people would have bought from you? Look at all the good STAR Labs has done for the world. There would_ be _no good without that money, that name. Nora would have understood that._

Eobard has to laugh, alone in his palatial office on the top floor of the Thawne Industries headquarters building. Nora wouldn’t have understood that at all. Not Nora. Not the woman who’d left STAR Labs for academia, saying that education is a higher calling even than research. Not the woman who’d married Henry Garrick, a nice young man from a nice family with nowhere near the social standing of the men and women Nora had once rubbed elbows with as a member of the elite STAR Labs research team.

Or as a friend of Eobard personally. He’d counted her as such, in those days, though they’d later drifted apart. She could have married blue blood, if she’d wanted to. She’d had the entrée into Society to meet the right people, and the salary and stock options through STAR Labs that would have made the match palatable to some of the families with more history than riches. Enough even to consider staying an Allen. A few more years at her generous salary, a few more prized inventions, and Nora could have afforded any dowry-price she’d wanted.

If Eobard had done his duty by his old friend and settled a small bequest on Nora’s son after her death, he reflects, twenty years of interest might have done the rest. Iris and Eddie could have been married. And Barry?

Eobard frowns slightly, an idea beginning to form. Yes, what _about_ Barry? Nora had been brilliant. Barry can’t have fallen far from the tree. Eobard scrolls through Barry’s file again. Bachelor’s in chemistry and physics, master’s in criminal forensics – both from Central City College, but the city’s science programs are respectable, Thawne Foundation money has seen to that… in fact… Eobard taps down further and gives in to the urge to laugh. Barry had had a Foundation scholarship for his undergraduate degree. It’s a small world.

Might Barry be a good fit at STAR Labs? Or if he’s not suited for bleeding-edge research, might not another position might be found for him? Thawne Industries has many interests. If Barry turns out to be dull there won’t be much Eobard can do, but if he has the same genius as his mother, salary and bonuses would follow. Who is to say but that in three years or so, the West family’s finances might not have changed for the better?

Three years or so –

Eobard’s picking up his desk phone before the thought’s entirely finished crossing his mind. “Yes,” he says in response to Gideon’s enquiry. “Grab the standard employment contracts and a pen and paper and come on in… I want to make a few modifications. For a unique case.”

“Right away, Dr. Thawne,” Sally Gideon says cheerfully.

Eobard settles the phone back into its cradle and stretches in satisfaction. Maybe there’s a happy ending to be found here after all.

* * *

Eobard had known about the betting pool over which West would come visit him next. He hadn’t participated, of course. That wouldn’t be appropriate. But that hadn’t stopped him from having a private little bet with himself. Would it be the head of the family next, come to storm on his daughter’s behalf? Would it be Eddie, trying to plead his case to the cousin who’d always been fond of him, who’d proven before to be a soft touch when it came to him? Would it be Iris again, determined to essay a second interview? All more plausible candidates, on the face of it, than the adopted brother. Barry’s position in the family may be a precarious one, adoption or no adoption. And regardless, Barry is neither the head of his family nor one of the principals involved in the conflict. He therefore seems, at first glance, to be an unlikely candidate.

But Eobard had known Nora Allen. His private bet with himself is therefore as follows: if Barry appears _before_ lunch, Eobard can go to that little sushi place he favors. If Barry delays until afternoon, he has to have something sent up to his desk. It wouldn’t do to be out at lunch when Barry arrives, after all.

If Eo is wrong entirely – if Joe or Iris show up after all – then Eobard has to deal with the awkwardness of making Barry a job offer through an intermediary. Still, the wisdom of the deal ought to be obvious to anyone who arrives. Eddie will certainly understand what Eo’s offering. Iris had seemed sharp enough during their one brief meeting. Joe West? Well, the Wests may be a small family, but the man must have certain basic financial competencies.

Eobard needn’t have worried. Barry Allen comes himself, and quite early, too.

“Mr. Allen,” Eobard greets, motioning the boy towards a chair and taking him in in the same moment. “How may I help you today?”

Barry falls into a chair, and his interview begins.

Nora’s son turns out to be nothing like what Eobard had expected. He’d – well, perhaps he’d been too focused on the fact of Barry’s parentage; he’d expected to see more of Nora in the boy, Nora as Eobard had known her, thirty years ago now and more. Barry is much the same age as Eobard had been when he’d finished his doctorate and founded STAR Labs. Nora had been older. A little more in line with the traditional age for achieving one’s Ph.D.. Eobard had been imagining her son as a slightly younger version of the Nora he’d first met in grad school. Warm, polite, socially adept despite her background. Easy to like. Easy to get along with.

The young man who appears in Eobard’s office is none of those things. Nora had obviously been a woman grown, but Barry still seems like a boy, awkward and gangly and visibly out of his depth. He has none of Nora’s self-possession or polish. But neither does he have her guile: he’s frank about his motives, about his opinion of Eobard, about the emotions he’s feeling at any given moment. He wears his heart on his sleeve. When Barry’s accusing gaze lands on Eobard – and those eyes must have come from Henry, startling and green – Eobard feels a jolt like lightning down his spine.

If Nora had ever looked at Eobard with eyes like that, a traitorous part of Eobard thinks, Emilia’s concerns about a youthful infatuation might not have been unfounded.

Eobard throttles that thought immediately, dousing it with reflexive guilt. Eobard has a debt of his own to settle here, for losing track of his old friend who’d helped make STAR Labs such a success, for being unaware of her death, for failing to help her son reach the fullest heights to which his birth and connections should have entitled him. None of that will be remedied by Eobard trifling with his old friend’s son, a boy some thirty years his junior to boot. No matter _how_ green his eyes are.

He makes Barry the offer, seconds Gideon to Barry’s service, and leaves for a budget meeting. Because he is Eobard Thawne, he leads the meeting with aplomb and gives the matters to hand his full attention. Because he is human, his mind drifts back to Barry’s green eyes every few minutes.

Back in his office after the meeting, Eobard reviews the changes Gideon has suggested and nods approval.

“I see no issues here,” he says, handing the documents back to Sally and turning to Barry. “Are there any questions you wish to ask me personally?”

Eobard expects Barry to have a dozen questions. It’s an unusual offer made under unusual circumstances. They haven’t discussed Barry’s job description. The expectations by which he will be judged. The field Barry will be working in.

Barry asks for a pen.

A _pen._

 _It must be from the Garrick side,_ Eobard thinks, even as he sends Gideon to update the contract.

They sit a moment in frozen silence when the door closes behind Gideon. Barry is staring at his hands. Eobard is trying to conceal that he’s staring at Barry.

“What if I don’t perform?” Barry asks.

Eobard shrugs. He’s thought this through already. “If it comes to it, we always need someone to sweep the floors.”

“Sweep the – you’ll be paying me $300,000 a year!”

Eobard, to his own surprise, laughs. “That’s my gamble to take,” he says when his mirth had faded. “I don’t think I’ll lose it, but if I do, so be it.”

“What makes you so willing to take that gamble?”

Eobard’s mirth fades. He studies Barry again, this time making no attempt to hide that he does it, either to himself or to the object of his attention.

“I could say that it’s simple nepotism,” Eobard says slowly. “And I won’t attempt to conceal from you that that’s what’s gotten you in the door. I suppose you won’t like hearing that.”

“How could I?”

Eobard shrugs impatiently. Barry Allen has proven to be tragically ignorant of the way the world truly works; if he can’t understand how his surname got him this job offer, it’s no wonder he thought nothing of asking Eobard to lower Eddie’s price. “Regardless. If I end up with Central City’s highest paid janitor for three years, so be it. But Nora Allen was brilliant. This is your chance to show that you’re brilliant, too.”

“Is that what you think?” Barry demands. He doesn’t seem pleased to have this opportunity; if anything, he seems angered. “You think that I’ve labored in obscurity all my life, with no chance to prove my value, and now here you come along like a white knight and you’re giving me that chance?”

Eobard considers and discards several answers and settles on the blunt truth.

“Yes.”

That’s the beauty of this plan, if Eobard does say so himself: it’s equally as good for Barry as it is for Iris and Eddie. Eddie gets to marry, Iris gets a Thawne for her family, and Barry gets his own chance to advance, in whatever form that takes for him. Perhaps he’ll make a name for himself as a brilliant scientist and embark on a lustrous career. Perhaps he’ll stockpile the wages he may earn, after the first three-year contract ends, and transition to management or small business ownership or even a comfortable life of leisure. Perhaps he’ll catch the eye of a coworker or a donor or a friend of a new-made friend and marry well. Either way, the step Barry takes today will be a leap over even the rosiest outcomes made possible by his old life.

Barry says, “Do you think I didn't have other job offers? I wasn’t working for the CCPD because they were the only people who'd hire me.”

Eobard blinks. Carefully he says, “I generally assume that people accept the best job offer they receive; ergo…”

“Because it’s all about money and position for you.” Barry – glares; there’s no other word for it. “For your information, Dr. Thawne, I received several better-paying offers. Do you know why I chose the CCPD?”

“Because your foster father works there?” Eobard guesses. It’s a foolish reason to turn down better offers, but they’ve already established that Barry is generally ignorant of his own better interests.

“Because I felt a sense of duty,” Barry says instead. “I would have thought that you would understand that, with all your fine words about what you owe your family.”

“I understand duty,” Eobard snaps, nettled. “I simply fail to see how settling beneath your abilities or potential is compatible with it.”

“Do you know how many people are killed every day in Central City?” Barry demands.

“Yes,” Eobard says truthfully.

“Or – wait, you do?”

“I get the statistics.”

“Of course you do,” Barry mutters to himself. Then he looks Eobard directly in the eye, challenge written all over his face. “And what do you do about them?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What do you do for the victims? What do you do to prevent future crimes?”

Eobard meets Barry’s gaze squarely. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re unaware of this, Mr. Allen, but a tenth of the police department’s funding – not to mention the justice department and the public defenders’ office – comes from Thawne Foundation grants.”

Barry nods. “And doesn’t that mean that you feel a sense of duty?”

Eobard pauses. He regards Barry again, this time with a silent inquiry.

“We don’t all have pots of money to donate,” Barry says, “so I do the work instead.”

“Did,” Eobard corrects. He’s not sure why he feels the need to insist on that point, but –

“I haven’t signed the contract yet,” Barry points out with a flash of cheek. Then he visibly tenses. “Though I fully intend to!”

Eobard waves this aside impatiently. He’s made the offer in good faith, and he’s not going to withdraw it because the scientist in question has problems with respect. If Eobard were hiring Barry for a more general position, his attitude might be a problem. But Eobard has plans for Barry that involve a pod in STAR Labs’ elite think-tank, and frankly, _everyone_ in the think-tank has an attitude problem. Eobard seems to recall having had one himself. Ah, to be young and brilliant and rich, all at the same time…

“Let’s talk about your job,” Eobard says instead, determined to bring this conversation back to safe ground. What is it about this boy, that he can knock Eobard off-balance so easily? Something else from the Garrick side, Eobard assumes.

“The contract just says I’ll be working in STAR Labs,” Barry says. “I don’t have my doctorate – won’t I just be a glorified lab assistant?”

“I suppose it’s something to consider as a step above having you sweep floors,” Eobard says, indulging in the urge to make Barry grin, and repressing the self-awareness of _why_. “But no; we use grad students for that. You’ll start in the Tank, doing rapid idea generation and prototype development. Things that work go on to development with another department; things that don’t go in the junk pile. Think weeks spent on each idea, not months or years. If your pod turns out one good notion a year, you’re doing well.”

“My _pod_?” Barry looks torn between amusement and confusion. “I’m a researcher, not a whale.”

“The Tank is made up of four-person pods,” Eobard begins. He’s halfway through explaining the organizational layout of STAR Labs when there’s a brief knock on the door.

“Here we are,” Gideon says, coming back into the room with the freshly printed updates to Barry’s employment contract. She sets the stack down and then separates it deftly into three smaller stacks. “This is the updated contract with all the changes we discussed.” Gideon indicates the leftmost stack, and Eobard is pleased to see Barry begin immediately to flip through it. He’s not lacking in basic contractual and financial literacy, at least. “This is the standard NDA,” Gideon continues, tapping the middle stack. “Since we’re holding the announcement of this hiring until after that of Eddie and Iris’ engagement.”

Barry nods distractedly.

“And this is the boilerplate for the press release,” Gideon finishes, gesturing to the third stack.

That gets Barry’s attention. “Press release?”

“To announce your hiring.” Eobard picks that one up first and skims through it quickly. It’s light on details; Barry’s name, the date – a good week following, in keeping with their planned delay – the few highlights of Barry’s academic and public career thus far, and the usual platitudes about Barry’s brilliance and anticipated strong impact on the bright future of STAR Labs.

Eobard looks up from the paper to see Barry staring at it in dismay. Which, for reasons best not examined too closely, makes Eobard hurry to reassure him. “We always do a press release for hires at a certain level,” he says. “It’s industry practice; few will pay attention to it.”

Barry swallows. Eobard finds his gaze lingering on the bob of his throat and hastily redirects his attention to meeting Barry’s gaze.

Barry says, “At a certain level?”

“The Tank is elite,” Eobard says, understating the case dramatically.

“Ah.”

Eobard isn’t keeping track, of course, but he can’t help but notice that Barry sounds… nervous.

“Relax,” he says. “Janitor, remember?”

“Lab assistant,” Barry counters, seeming to relax somewhat. “You said I could try being a lab assistant first.”

“So I did.” Eobard sets the press release down and gestures to the contract Barry is still holding. “But you have an action of your own to perform, before any of that can occur.”

“So I do.” Barry stares down at the contract.

Eobard reaches into his suit jacket, into the interior pocket. He takes out a pen and sets it down on the desk, at Barry’s right hand. It’s an old-fashioned pen. Large. Heavy. Eobard likes the heft, the way the ink flows out of it when he signs his name. It reminds him that his signature has consequences. That his commitments have consequences. That his actions have meaning.

“You really think I can do this?” Barry asks, not looking up from the paper. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m doing this either way. I know it’s about the money and not about me. But – you really think – ” Barry picks up the pen and fiddles with it. He still doesn’t look up. “It’s _STAR Labs_ ,” he says helplessly, as if that explains everything.

Maybe it does. Eobard still remembers the wonder of opening STAR Labs, of seeing the logo above the door, of walking in on its first day. One part wonder, one part heady anticipation, and one part sheer screaming terror. _We’re going to change the world_ had met _oh God, what have I done?_

STAR Labs had succeeded. Eobard had succeeded. And he had, in some part, become inured to success. Inured to the point where Eobard’s willing to gamble on things like hiring Nora Allen’s son, on the strength of his resume and a single interview and Barry’s sister’s wish to marry Eobard’s favorite cousin.

 _What makes you so willing to take that gamble?_ Barry had asked. _Do you really think –_

Eobard could tell Barry that Nora had been brilliant, and so Barry ought to be, too. He could point to Barry’s educational attainment and the glowing statements Gideon had obtained from Barry’s supervisors at the CCPD in the last twenty-four hours as they had vetted Barry for this job offer. Eobard could even tell Barry that frankly it doesn’t matter if Barry’s brilliant or not; as Barry had just said, it’s about the money, not just about him.

But before Eobard had set out to change the world, his mother had told him, _I think you will succeed._ That – more than Eobard’s brain, more than his education, more than his blood and his last name and his position in society – _that_ had been what had made it come true. Emilia had believed in him; he hadn’t been willing to let her down.

“I really do think you can do this, Mr. Allen,” Eobard says firmly.

Barry looks at Eobard now. He looks hard, as if he is going to search every inch of Eobard for a lie. Eobard meets that gaze squarely and does not back down.

“Okay,” Barry says at last.

Nora’s son picks up the pen – and signs.


	4. Chapter 4

Barry stumbles home in a daze. There’s a signed employment contract in his backpack, as well as a pile of other paperwork. Thawne had told him a lot, too – about Barry’s start date and his team assignment and how the onboarding process would be handled – but Barry doesn’t remember a word of it now. All he remembers is watching the ink flow from the pen – of course Thawne had had an old-fashioned fountain pen – as Barry had signed. All he remembers is watching Thawne take up that pen in his turn, and write Barry a check for the full amount agreed to under the contract. The full amount of Eddie’s dowry-price.

Every few steps Barry touches his pocket compulsively. He’d all but stuffed the check into his pocket the moment Eobard had been done writing it. Eobard had offered to have a company car take Barry home – _essential materials, remember, Mr. Allen? You’ll be eligible for one yourself, at least until you wipe out and become a janitor –_ but Barry had preferred to walk. He hadn’t even been able to bristle at the janitor joke.

Barry stumbles through the front door of the West bungalow and comes to a screeching halt. Joe, Iris, and Eddie are all sitting in the small living area. They’re staring at him. Barry has no idea what he looks like, but from the expressions on all their faces, it’s not good.

“Where have you been?” Joe asks. He manages to sound conversational, but there’s judgment in his eyes.

Barry turns to hang his coat in the closet, fiddling with the hangar to avoid meeting Joe’s gaze. “I had some business downtown.”

“Downtown.” Joe’s voice is implacable. Giving up, Barry turns around. Joe’s already figured it out, by the sounds of it, or at least enough that Barry can already tell he won’t let this go. “Not at Thawne Industries, by any chance?”

“Joe – ”

“You went to see him.”

Barry sighs. “Yeah. I did.”

Joe crosses his arms. “Barry, I told you – ”

“I went to see him, we talked, I left,” Barry cuts Joe off. “I didn’t start a family feud or anything like that.”

“I _told you_ not to try something like this!” Joe cries.

“Well – I had to. I just had to, okay?” Barry turns back to the closet door and closes it, harder than is strictly necessary. “I had to try.”

There’s a beat. When Joe speaks again, he sounds less angry and more resigned. “I guess I should be glad you feel such loyalty towards this family, instead of being angry that you disobeyed me.”

“You are my family,” Barry says to the closet door. “You have to know how much I care for you all.”

“I do know,” Joe says softly.

“Did Eo budge?” Eddie asks. Barry turns around to face them all. Eddie looks like he’s trying not to be hopeful. Iris, sitting next to him, looks like she doesn’t know what to hope or fear. “Did he lower the price?”

“Uh. No,” Barry says awkwardly, which is the truth, but has the opposite effect: Eddie’s face falls, and Iris turns to stone. “But he had another idea.”

Eddie and Joe look at each other over Iris’ bowed head. For a moment neither of them seem to know what to say. It gives Barry a chance to open his backpack and pull the folder out.

“What idea, Bar?” Joe asks finally.

Barry comes into the living room and sets the folder down on the coffee table. The Thawne Industries logo seems to glow in the reflected sunlight coming through the windows. On top of it, Barry lays down the check.

“He offered me a job,” Barry says quietly. “I accepted.”

Eddie seems to grasp it first. He picks up the check. Then he puts it down again and snatches up the folder.

“A job,” Joe says, more slowly. “What kind of job?”

“STAR Labs.” Barry pauses, swallows, and then – it hits him. STAR Labs. All the stories his mother had told him about it when he’d been a kid – he’d always wanted to hear about her work, loved hearing about it, wanted to be a scientist like her one day. Not an academic. She’d laughed over it. Teased him with stories about budget shortfalls and government grants, before finally giving in to Barry’s begging and telling him about the time she’d worked at the most magical research lab in Central City.

“I’m going to work at STAR Labs,” Barry says out loud. He says it slowly, and as he says it, for the first time, it becomes real.

He had been too focused on the money – on Iris and Eddie – to realize that all of his childhood dreams had just come true.

“I’m going to work at STAR Labs!” Barry repeats, and looks up. He catches Joe’s gaze and breaks into a big smile. “Holy shit!”

“Holy shit is right,” Eddie breathes, flipping through the contract as quickly as he can. “This is – this is amazing!”

“What is that?” Joe demands.

“My employment contract,” Barry says.

“Give me that!” Joe snatches it away from Eddie and starts scanning through it himself. “Barry, please tell me you read this before you signed it.”

“Had it reviewed by a lawyer, in fact,” Barry says virtuously. “It’s fine.”

“It is,” Eddie agrees, sounding weak with relief. He turns to Iris. “Iris, did you hear? Barry’s going to work at STAR Labs, and we – ”

Unnoticed by anyone else, Iris has picked up the check and is staring at it. “We can get married,” she whispers.

Barry laughs. “You can get married,” he agrees.

Joe tosses the contract onto the table. It fans out around its staple. “Barry, you – you – ”

He never finishes the sentence. He just jumps to his feet and hugs Barry until Barry’s bones squeak.

“It doesn’t say anything bad, does it?” Iris asks anxiously. “Barry? You’re not going to be doing something you hate?”

“I have been dreaming about working at STAR Labs since I was old enough to spell,” Barry says with complete truth. “This is a dream come true for me too.”

“We need to file the paperwork,” Joe is saying. “We need to make an announcement.”

“Oh my God,” Iris says.

“This is going to be big news,” Eddie says. “My family has PR consultants, they can help us – that is – if you don’t mind, Iris?” Eddie looks suddenly abashed.

“No, why would I mind?” Iris says practically. One eyebrow goes up suspiciously. “Is this some kind of blueblood thing?”

“Technically the receiving family is supposed to put forward all the money and make all the decisions for the wedding,” Eddie admits. “I was afraid for a second I was stepping on your toes.”

Iris waves a hand. “I don’t care about _that_. If your cousin is willing to loan us a good publicist, so much the better. I don’t know anyone who’d do the job for a price we could afford, and I _do_ know how much we’re going to need one.” Her smile turns rueful. “Hazards of being in journalism. I know _exactly_ what kind of media circus we’re letting ourselves in for.”

Joe clears his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Eddie’s abashed look returns in full force. Iris, by contrast, just smiles.

“Father,” she says, taking Eddie’s hand, “This is Edward Thawne. I’d like to bring him into our family, as my spouse, and your son.”

Joe nods seriously. “I approve of your intentions,” he says to Iris, then turns his gaze to Eddie. “Edward Thawne, I look forward to welcoming you into my family at the appointed time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eddie replies.

“We increase,” Joe says.

“We increase,” Barry echoes, as the only other West present who’s not trying to get married.

Joe breaks into a wide smile. “C’mere,” he says in his usual tones, and drags both Iris and Eddie into a hug.

* * *

Iris proves to be sadly correct about the resulting media reaction to the news of she and Eddie’s engagement. Already on full alert thanks to the rumor that Iris had asked Eobard for Eddie’s hand, an intrepid photojournalist for the  _Central City Crescent_ manages to find out where Eddie and Iris are having their engagement photos taken and take a few candid shots of her own. Those run front-page in the  _Crescent’s_ Society pages the next day. The other newspapers are forced to run the formal shot in their afternoon editions, a full six hours behind the news. They compensate for this by printing – and, where necessary, inventing – the most juicy gossip they can get.

“Apparently you two met while parasailing in the Amazon,” Barry reads three days later. He’s got a copy of every daily paper spread out on the kitchen table in front of him and is reading the choicest bits out loud. “It was love at first sight when Eddie’s parachute failed, and Iris rescued him.”

“How did you even accomplish that?” Joe asks Iris from the sink, where he’s washing dishes.

“It’s not true, Dad,” Iris sighs. She and Eddie are in the living room, heads together over a three-ring binder of calligraphy samples. It may be tradition that the receiving family pays for the wedding, but the Wests had needed a miracle just to afford Eddie’s dowry-price; there’s no way they can afford to put on the kind of wedding spectacle that Eddie’s half of the guest list will be expecting. Eobard Thawne had therefore announced publically that his wedding gift to the young couple would be that _he_ intended to fund the wedding. A few old Society matrons are using the editorial section of the _Citizen_ to grumble about the Failing Standards Of Youth Today and how Eobard’s gift Undermines The Proper Order Of Things. But for the main, there are juicier things to gossip about. Iris and Eddie’s alleged whirlwind romance while rescuing seals from an oil spill in Iceland, for example.

Barry’s seen Eobard Thawne twice more since signing the contract of employment. Once had been at the press conference – Society reporters only, but still the largest and most well-covered event Barry had ever attended – that had formally announced the betrothal of Eddie Thawne to Iris West. The second time had been at the similarly excruciating ‘family party’ Thawne had arranged. Apparently traditional in blueblood society, the party had purportedly been to allow the Wests and the Thawnes to network amongst each other, in the expectation that the soon-to-be-formed connection would yield dividends in the friend-of-a-friend culture of high society. In reality, it had been a chance for shocked Thawnes to not-so-subtly inquire about Iris’ education, bloodline, and prospects in life, and for Joe West to glare at everyone who had tried to start a conversation with him.

The engagement hasn’t just changed Eddie’s and Iris’ lives. Barry has had to start ducking in the back door at the CCPD just to avoid the reporters. The cops are pissed off that the news vans are blocking the lot where the black-and-whites are parked. The detectives are complaining that they can’t bring anyone in the front door without running a press gauntlet, not exactly an ideal situation when trying to keep an investigation or a witness on the down low. And the desk sergeants have been getting increasingly more annoyed at dealing with the journalists who have been trying to sneak in to the station, and with their increasingly improbable excuses. One reporter, braver or stupider than the rest, had actually run a red light and then acted belligerent _on purpose to get arrested_. The man had gotten an article out of the story, too, which had infuriated everyone else concerned. When Barry finally puts in his two weeks’ notice, Captain Singh practically falls to the floor and kisses Barry’s feet.

“Sorry, Allen, it’s not that we’re glad to see you go, it’s just that…” Singh shrugs helplessly.

“It’s that we’re glad to see you go,” Eddie says cheerfully, leaning in to drop some paperwork on Singh’s desk. “You do realize that Joe and I will still be working here after Barry leaves, right?”

“I have no idea what I did in a past life to deserve this,” Singh sighs, “but I sure as hell hope I enjoyed it at the time.”

A check of Barry’s records reveals that he has about a week and a half of saved leave, which – if unused – the department will have to pay out on Barry’s departure. With Singh’s blessing Barry just tidies up his work area, hands over his open cases to other techs (mostly Patty, who he will really miss, and who openly begs Barry to pass her resume along in case STAR Labs turns out to need a few more forensic techs-turned-scientists) and finds himself with ten unexpected days of freedom until he starts his new job.

Most of the time vanishes into wedding planning. It turns out there are a _lot_ of details involved in planning a wedding, at least a blueblood wedding. Barry suggests a wedding planner, but in a fit of masochism, Eddie and Iris declare that they want to do everything themselves.

“God help us,” Joe sighs when he comes home after a long day and trips over a box of fabric swatches. Barry, drowning in glossy pamphlets from Central City’s premier wedding venues, can’t help but agree.

In the middle of all the chaos, a tailor arrives at the West bungalow, ostensibly to measure Barry for his wedding suit. Once inside, the tailor produces a terrifying array of sample fabrics and starts asking questions about Barry’s preferred tie fabric.

“Are you sure all of this is necessary?” Barry asks in horror. “Don’t I just need the one suit? Shouldn’t it just be black?”

The tailor coughs. “Perhaps the young gentleman might think of another reason he requires new clothing?” he suggests delicately. “An upcoming change in employment, perhaps?” Barry spends the next few days turning bright red with embarrassment every time he remembers it.

Clothes are delivered within forty-eight hours of the tailor’s visit. Two weeks’ worth of slacks, in two sets of colors, black to grey and brown to tan. An equivalent amount of shirts in solids and tasteful patterns. Belts. Ties. Ugh. Barry _hates_ ties.

For the rest of the remaining week until Barry starts his new job, every time Barry opens his closet in the morning, he stares at those clothes. Which makes him think about the day he’d gone downtown, ready to storm into the office of Eobard Thawne and crusade for justice on behalf of Iris.

Which makes Barry think about Eobard Thawne. Which makes him want to take a cold shower, for reasons best unexplored.

Barry takes a lot of cold showers that week.

* * *

“Nervous?” Iris asks sympathetically over her bowl of cereal, an interminable week later.

Barry swallows his toast. “No,” he lies valiantly.

“Stop tugging at your tie, it’s fine,” Eddie advises as he passes by the kitchen. He pauses to kiss Iris and wave at Barry. “Good luck on your first day!”

There’s a horn honk from outside, where Joe is waiting for Eddie. Eddie laughs and makes tracks for the door.

“I am going to completely mess everything up,” Barry says to Iris. “I will be fired before the end of the day. You’ll have to cancel your wedding. Singh will refuse to give me my job back. The next time Joe’s car breaks down he’ll have to start walking to work. Soon he’ll be fired too. Then there will be budget cuts at the _Picture-News_ , and ultimately we’ll all starve.”

“Sounds about right to me,” Iris agrees with a straight face, which then relaxes into a smile. “Feel better having gotten that off your chest?”

“Not really,” Barry sighs, pushing the rest of his breakfast away.

He intends to get to STAR Labs a full half-hour before his official start time. Naturally, therefore, there’s a three-car pileup along his route that he doesn’t spot in time to neatly avoid. Much cursing and honking ensues before Barry parks at the back of the employee lot at (of course) exactly 8 A.M.. Barry runs the rest of the way to the building and arrives sweaty, disheveled, and _late_.

The foyer of STAR Labs seems calculated to make Barry feel as insignificant as possible. It extends upward into what seems like infinity. _How tall is this building?_ Everything is white or highly polished silver, except the STAR Labs logo, which is black and manages to look simultaneously like a work of art and a complex equation. Barry frankly gawks.

“Hey!” a voice calls to him. “Are you Barry Allen?”

Barry yanks his head back down from where he had been craning it unashamedly around and locates the speaker, a guy somewhat shorter than him with dark hair and – is that a _Star Trek_ T-shirt underneath his lab coat? Barry tugs at his tie again. _I thought there was a dress code?_

“Yes,” Barry says belatedly, recalling that the stranger had asked him a question.

The stranger grins in a way that immediately puts Barry at ease. “Cisco Ramon,” he introduces himself, seizing Barry’s limp hand and giving him a quick shake. “I’m your buddy. Welcome to STAR Labs.”

“Buddy?”

“Standard practice. New hires get a buddy. Someone to show you the ropes. You’re in my pod! It’s gonna be great to have a fourth member again. We’ve been understaffed for a _year_ since Jesse left, it’s been a major drag.” Cisco is steering Barry around the turnstiles and over to a manned reception desk in the corner. “Good morning, Sharon,” Cisco says cheerfully. “This is Barry Allen. He should be on your list?”

The woman behind the desk has skin a few shades darker than Iris and a distinctly motherly smile that makes Barry want to promise that he really did do his homework. “Yes, he’s on the list,” she says. “ID?”

Barry goes through the routine of producing his license and having it scrutinized. In less time than he’d expected Barry finds himself pronounced acceptable.

“Stand over there,” Sharon directs, pointing to a wall that has a backdrop hung from it. “Aaaand… smile!”

Barry smiles. There’s a flash, then Sharon is gesturing to him to come back over.

“That’ll just print in a minute,” Sharon tells him. “You use the badge to get through the gates. If you need lab access you get it from the lab supervisor, not me. After hours you’ll also need to use your pin code.” She hands him a slip of paper, which Barry tucks into his pocket. “And here you go.” Sharon takes something from the printer, peels off its adhesive, and slaps it onto a blank badge. “Welcome to STAR Labs, Mr. Allen.”

“Thanks, Sharon!” Cisco says brightly.

“Thank you,” Barry echoes, remembering his manners.

“Come on.” Cisco guides Barry back over to the turnstiles, then demonstrates how to badge through. “Elevators are broken up by which floors they serve. We want the far left bank.” He presses a button marked _floors 500-550._

“Labs are at the top, huh,” Barry says, looking around.

“Yep.” Cisco bounces up and down on his feet, waiting for the elevators to come. “So what’s your background? Physics? Chemistry?”

“Both,” Barry says, “but only at the undergrad level. I’m, uh, I’m kind of new to research? Before this I worked in forensics.”

“Oooh, cool,” Cisco says with frank enthusiasm, herding Barry into the recently arrived elevator car. “You’ll have to tell us all about that sometime.”

Barry starts to feel just a little bit better about this whole thing.

The lab Cisco takes Barry to makes his jaw drop and his knees tremble. Every single piece of scientific equipment Barry has ever seen, heard of, or dreamed about is present. Gleaming, shiny, and ready for Barry’s use.

“This is all _ours_?” he squeaks.

“Dr. Thawne doesn’t want us waiting around for something to become available,” a new voice says. Its owner leans casually against the doorframe leading from what looks like an electronics lab. “Hartley Rathaway. You’re Barry Allen?”

“That’s what they tell me,” Barry jokes. Or tries to. Hartley apparently doesn’t have much of a sense of humor; he just frowns at Barry.

“Be nice to him, Hart,” Cisco says to Hartley. This has the unfortunate sound of both a well-worn refrain and a forlorn hope.

Hartley raises both eyebrows. “Dr. Thawne’s new vanity project? Why _wouldn’t_ I be nice to him?” His smile is the definition of insincere. “Welcome, Dr. Allen. Oh, excuse me. _Mr._ Allen.”

“You haven’t got a Ph.D. either, so shut up,” Cisco grumbles. “Don’t listen to Hartley. He just likes to pull people’s pigtails.”

Hartley shudders artistically. “What an unspeakably crude way of putting it. One can tell _you_ haven’t breeding.”

Barry’s brain clicks into gear. “Wait, Rathaway? As in – ”

“Rathaway Industries? Rathaway Pharmaceuticals? Rathaway Aerotech?” Hartley fakes a bored yawn, ostentatiously studying his fingernails. “My family has many interests.”

“Wow,” Barry says in unfeigned enthusiasm. “You guys were involved in the space program! You built the zero-G lab! Too cool!”

Hartley’s gaze snaps up to meet Barry’s, and some of the superciliousness seems to evaporate. “Not many people know about Rathaway Aerotech’s space efforts.”

“That’s ‘cause people focus on the delivery vehicles instead of the actual, y’know, _science,_ ” Cisco says. “The Rathaway lab was a great leap ahead for life sciences.”

Hartley’s gaze flickers over to Cisco’s. “Well, it’s no surprise that _you’re_ a space case,” he says, but it’s missing a lot of the heat that had been present at the start of the conversation, and Cisco just grins.

“Is Caitlin around?” Cisco asks. To Barry he says, “She’s the fourth member of our pod.”

“You just missed her,” Hartley says. “She went down to the sub-level.”

Cisco nods as if this means something to him. Barry lets his blank expression do the talking. Hartley notices and expands, “Sub-levels are where manufacturing and fabrication are. More relevantly, they’re where Caitlin’s _boyfriend_ works.”

“Husband,” Cisco says. This, too, has the air of something he has said a thousand times before, and expects to say a thousand time more. “They’re married, Hart.”

“Ugh,” Hartley says, and sniffs.

There’s a chime from the lab behind him. Hartley’s head turns, and he vanishes back inside without so much as a by-your-leave.

“Does he have something against Caitlin’s husband?” Barry asks Cisco, keeping his voice down.

Cisco’s lips are pressed together in a thin line, and he’s staring at the space where Hartley had been with thinly-veiled displeasure. Then he seems to hear Barry and shakes his head, returning to his previous cordial expression. “Ronnie’s family aren’t – weren’t – well, they weren’t much. Caitlin’s a Snow.”

Barry processes this. “So Caitlin married down.” He casts an uneasy glance of his own towards Hartley’s lab. What’s Hartley going to think of Eddie marrying Iris, then? Is that why Hartley had been standoffish and borderline rude? The Rathaways are bluebloods; no doubt Eddie’s engagement is household news, complete with much tutting and disapproval.

Cisco shrugs. “Depends on how you define down. I’ve known Caitlin for a while. When she first started here, she thought her brain and her bloodline were the only things that made her worth anything, and she was pretty neurotic about both. Ronnie changed that. She’s a lot happier now. A lot nicer, too.”

“Her family didn’t mind?”

“They minded.” Cisco slides Barry a sideways look. “Maybe steer clear of mentioning mothers around Caitlin for a while, until you get to know her better.”

“Gotcha,” Barry says. He hesitates, then admits, “I don’t talk much about family, honestly. I’m, uh, honestly, I’m kind of an orphan.”

“Yeah, I know,” Cisco says. At Barry’s start, he shrugs apologetically. “Hartley’s like a walking _who’s who._ As soon as he heard you were joining our pod he went and looked up your whole history. Hartley’s – well, the Rathaways are obsessive about bloodline, even by blueblood standards.”

“I noticed that,” Barry mutters.

“Hey. None of us care, okay? Not me, that’s for sure. My family’s as working-class as they come. Outside this lab I’m way out of my depth, but in here science is what matters. Caitlin might have cared once, but not anymore. And Hartley’s not as bad as he seems.” Cisco’s gaze has wandered back to Hartley’s lab.

“You sound like you’ve known him for a while,” Barry ventures.

“We started at STAR Labs together. Right out of college. So yeah, a while.” Cisco pulls his attention away from Hartley’s lab and grins at Barry. “His bite’s worse than his bark. Trust me. He’s really a nice guy, underneath.”

After a moment, Barry grins back, keeping his doubts to himself.

“Anyway. That’s enough about family and bloodlines.” Cisco points out past their pod’s cluster of lab workspaces and into the main lab floor. “Want to come play with the particle accelerator?”

“Do I ever,” Barry blurts. He starts towards without even waiting for Cisco.

Cisco laughs, catching up. “Welcome to STAR Labs, Barry,” he says grandly.

* * *

Dr. Caitlin Snow (“Caitlin is fine”) reappears shortly before lunch and shakes Barry’s hand with every appearance of warmth. She’s hands-down the tallest member of their pod, and appears to take shameless advantage of this, claiming the top of every shelf and workbench to stow her gear without regard for the fact that the other three then have to crowd  _their_ gear into the slightly over half the storage remaining. Otherwise she’s pleasant to work with, happily telling Barry about her specialty – molecular biology – and expressing great interest in the process and efficacy of certain related forensics techniques.

“Write it on the list,” Cisco sighs, after Caitlin winds down from a half-hour burst of excitement on a possible new way of linking molecular decay with physical trauma to provide a timeline of events after a crime.

“Got it,” Hartley says from across the room. He goes over to the lone wall of their shared workspace that doesn’t have equipment pushed up against it. Their pod is housed in a series of labs on a hub-and-spoke arrangement. There’s a three-walled shared lab they’re in now that has workstations for all of them individually as well as a large space in the middle for assembling prototypes. Four individual labs open off two walls, one for each of them, to be set up more or less how they individually wish – Cisco’s promised to take Barry down to Supplies later in the day and show him how to requisition anything he wants. The missing fourth wall leads down a few steps into the large equipment bay, which houses anything too, well, large to fit in their individual labs. And the third wall is covered from floor to ceiling with whiteboards. _Sliding_ whiteboards, as Hartley now demonstrates, shifting one that’s covered with equations over to reveal another, prominently titled _THE LIST._

“Ideas go on the list,” Cisco explains to Barry as Hartley uncaps a marker and writes _Caitlin: Enhanced timeline derivation for criminal forensics via molecular decay analysis._ “They sit there for a while while we think about them more and weed out the bad ones. If they’re still up after six months, we start digging into them.”

“Speaking of which,” Hartley says, and erases a line of text higher up the list. Barry hadn’t caught anything more than _Hartley: Auditory vibration tuning for –_ before it’s gone. “I ran through the equations again and I still can’t get rid of that terminal flutter issue, so I’m nixing it.”

“Sorry,” Caitlin sympathizes.

Hartley shrugs. “If I get the equations sorted out it will be back,” he says.

Cisco’s stomach rumbles. He looks at his watch. “Well then,” he begins.

The sound of footfalls interrupts him. Barry looks up just in time to see Dr. Thawne round the corner from the elevator bank and into their pod’s shared workspace.

“Good morning, good morning,” Dr. Thawne says in response to everyone’s greetings, smiling genially. “And a special good morning to you, Mr. Allen. I thought I’d drop by to see how your first day was going.”

“Fine,” Barry stammers. “Great. Yeah.”

Barry immediately wants to kick himself. And he’d thought Eobard Thawne had been intimidating in his office in Thawne Tower. Somehow seeing the man here in STAR Labs is so much worse. Thawne looks relaxed. Like he owns the place. _Well, he does._ But more than that – he’d _created_ the place. And that’s evident in everything from the proprietary pat Thawne had given the particle accelerator as he’d walked by it to the insouciant way Thawne stands in the open space, effortlessly taking possession of everything around him.

Thawne nods, however, as if Barry’s stammering idiocy is nothing out of the common way. That just makes Barry want to sink into the floor even more. Especially as Thawne proceeds to spend a few minutes chatting with each other member of Barry’s pod. Their conversations range from acoustics to molecular chemistry to thermodynamics, and all seem to revolve around some idea at least partway to becoming a reality.

When it comes to Barry, who obviously, painfully hasn’t actually accomplished anything yet, Thawne says, “And how are you liking the new wardrobe?”

Barry resists the urge to tug at the tie around his throat. “It’s – it’s nice,” he says. His eyes want to dart around, to clock the reactions of the other members of his team. He feels, suddenly, like an imposter.

“Sometimes,” Dr. Thawne says quietly, leaning in to keep their conversation from being overheard by the rest of Barry’s team, “the trappings of status or success can serve as an intermediary, compelling respect until word and deed have the opportunity to earn it.”

Barry processes through this and catches himself on the verge of a laugh. “In other words, fake it till you make it?”

Thawne’s outward bearing remains authoritative and serious, but his eyes are dancing. “Just so, Mr. Allen. And perhaps also: the clothes make the man.”

“Thanks,” Barry says, surprisingly himself by how much he means it.

“You are most genuinely welcome.” Dr. Thawne straightens back up, and says in a voice pitched to carry, “Have you had lunch yet?”

Cisco picks up on this and jumps in. “Not yet. We were just getting ready to take Barry down to the cafeteria.”

Thawne makes a wry face. “Let’s not scare him off on his first day,” he says, to chuckles from Cisco, Caitlin, and Hartley. None of them, Barry notices, seem tongue-tied or overawed by Dr. Thawne. The man’s presence is undeniable, but he seems to have cultivated an open, relaxed workplace in spite of that. Now he says, “Why don’t you all go take Mr. Allen out somewhere nice?”

“We have a design review meeting at one,” Hartley says.

Thawne waves a hand. “I’ll have it moved to the end of the week.” He looks around the group, holding eye contact with each one of them in turn. His gaze is by turns supportive, confident, and fatherly. When he comes to Barry, the fatherly air fades to be replaced by something that Barry can’t define. It makes Barry’s spine straighten. He meets it head-on, and wonders what Thawne is making of Barry. Then he wonders what _he’s_ making of Thawne.

When Thawne turns away, it’s like he takes all the air in Barry’s lungs with him. “Have fun,” Thawne calls over his shoulder. His steps are a little quicker than they’d been before as he heads for the elevator bank and out of sight.

No one else seems to have noticed. They’ve broken into excited conversation as Caitlin ducks back to her laboratory to grab her purse and Cisco digs under a pile of transistors for his jacket. As Barry tunes back in to their chatter, he realizes they’re discussing places to go eat. _Expensive_ places. Thawne may be dismissive of the cafeteria, but at least it’s free to employees. Barry’s heart sinks.

“What about La Marseille? Down by the waterfront?” Hartley is suggesting. “They have those great crepes – ”

“Oooh, it’s been forever since I’ve had good crepes,” Cisco agrees enthusiastically. “Cait, what do you say?”

“Works for me,” she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading for the elevators.

Barry follows at a slower pace, feeling some of the blood drain from his face. “Uh, guys, I can’t afford – ”

“You’re not affording anything,” Cisco says, urging Barry forward. “When Dr. Thawne says to go out to lunch, he means he’s paying.”

“Come on,” Hartley calls from up ahead. He’s got an elevator car waiting and is holding the door open for the rest of them. “I’m _hungry_.”

Barry lets himself be pulled along. He stares at his blurry reflection in the highly polished doors of the elevator doors and gives in to the urge to tug on his tie. _Thawne’s_ tie. Every stitch on Barry, with the exception of his socks and his underwear, had been provided by Thawne. Sure, Barry had negotiated for that – it’s technically part of his compensation – but Barry is suddenly hyperaware of every fiber of cloth that’s touching his skin. He tries to tell himself that the tailor had probably arranged everything. Someone like Eobard Thawne would never have actually wasted his time on selecting clothes for the most junior scientist in STAR Labs, engagement or no engagement. But as the elevator sends Barry’s stomach into his throat, all he can think is that he’s apparently going to eat expensive crepes by the waterfront on Eobard Thawne’s dime, while wearing clothes Eobard Thawne had bought him, in between a full day of working at Eobard Thawne’s pet company.

 _Trappings,_ Barry thinks. _He’s giving me the trappings I need to command respect, until I’ve earned it on my own. Respect here at STAR Labs. And – elsewhere?_ He thinks of Iris and Eddie’s formal engagement party. The one where the divide between the Wests and the Thawnes had been so excruciatingly apparent. How would some of those snobbish bluebloods have reacted to Barry, if they’d met him instead for the first time dressed like this, coming out of an expensive restaurant, and wearing a STAR Labs badge? Barry would bet – they’d have treated him a lot differently. Barry would bet they’d have treated him with respect.

There is apparently a great deal more to Eobard Thawne than Barry had initially thought.

 _If this is what my first day at STAR Labs is like,_ he thinks, following Cisco out of the elevator on the ground floor, _what’s next?_


	5. Chapter 5

Barry Allen is becoming… well. Eobard hesitates to label him a _problem_ , but it’s increasingly hard to find another word that fits.

Scientifically, he’s fine. Better than fine. Barry seems to have been exactly what his research pod had needed: he’s level-headed enough to head off some of their wilder ideas, idealistic enough to push them forward when the going gets tough, and empathetic enough to do the social grooming that had otherwise been severely lacking in that pod, Hartley and Cisco’s bantering notwithstanding. Since Barry has started at STAR Labs, he’s gotten two prototypes unstuck from where they’d been wallowing in implementation hell and helped move another idea from the drawing board into theoretical tests. Barry’s yet to add anything to his team’s queue directly, but from Eobard’s observations, that’s mainly due to Barry’s (apparently significant) natural modesty. There _are_ ideas there, Eobard is sure of it: Mr. Allen simply hasn’t yet felt comfortable enough to bring them forward. Reasonable enough, though somewhat unusual in someone as brilliant as Barry promises to be. He’s been at STAR Labs five weeks, after all.

No. Mr. Allen’s problematic nature is emerging in other areas. Areas like: Eobard making excuses to come visit Barry’s research pod more often. Eobard interesting himself far too much in what Thawne Industries is providing Mr. Allen under the materials rider in his contract. Eobard finding himself talking to Barry far longer than politeness demands when their social circles intersect, which is happening more often as the wedding of the decade rolls onward towards its inevitable climax.

Perhaps Eobard shouldn’t be taking such a personal interest in this wedding. Theoretically he’s supposed to be pulling away; ceremonially withdrawing from Eddie in preparation for the day when Eddie will no longer look to Eobard for protection and support. But Eobard _had_ volunteered to pay for the wedding. Quite necessarily. Bringing the Thawne connections to the kind of wedding the Wests could afford would have exposed the new couple to ridicule. Love notwithstanding, Eddie’s connections are half the value of the match: having charged Iris West for Eddie’s full worth, it’s incumbent on Eobard to ensure that she receives what she’s paying for.

Nor, personally, does Eo wish to see his favorite cousin discomfited. Eobard’s never quite understood Eddie; unlike most of the other members of their family, he’s never pretended to, either. But Eddie possesses a degree of self-awareness and self-assurance that Eobard admires. Eddie has always known what he’s wanted in life and acted to get it. Those desires may be as incomprehensible to Eobard as they are to most of their relations, but Eddie is indisputably happy. And _that_ is Eobard’s ultimate duty as the head of this family. Not – as Great-Uncle Ernest would have it – increasing their holdings or their influence or the size of their bank accounts. Ensuring the happiness of everyone who can call themselves a Thawne. Money and power are important; as he’d said to Barry Allen not too long ago, _try being happy without them._ But if all the Thawnes were as easy to please as Eddie, Eobard’s duty would be much lighter.

So Eobard had offered to pay for the wedding. And gladly. He’s sorry to lose Eddie, one of the few relations Eobard has who treats him neither like a terrifying autocrat or a baffling enigma, but he squashes that selfish thought whenever it comes. Eddie’s happy; that’s what’s important.

Besides. It’s not as if Eobard hasn’t taken something equally precious from the West family, in their turn.

It’s a new feeling, guilt. Eobard doesn’t like it. Nor does he understand it. He has signed Barry Allen to a perfectly legitimate contract. There are no hidden trap doors or subtly vicious clauses. Such contracts exist – Eobard is well trained on how to _spot_ them, if by some curse Gideon lets something slip past her – but Barry’s employment contract is not one of them. Eobard had offered a fair deal. Honest labor for an honest price. It’s no different from the hundreds of other such contracts Eobard has handed out in the past. In fact, it’s considerably more modest than most. Contracts such as Barry’s tend to be the province of the elite. About half the scientists in the Tank work under similar ones; they’re a handy device for getting out of college debt quick, and Eobard has never before felt guilty for leveraging that fact to lock someone brilliant but poor up to a multi-year deal. The new hire gets to wipe out their debt and save several years’ worth of interest, not to mention land a steady job – no small thing, in today’s economy – and the resume-building cachet of a multi-year stint at the premier research institution in Central City. Eobard gets a steady supply of highly skilled labor at a predictable, controlled price. Everyone wins.

As everyone has won in Mr. Allen’s case. One need only look at Eddie. Or at Iris West.

But there’s an uncomfortable feeling in the back of Eobard’s mind every time he finds himself glancing at Barry Allen across a room, or in the lab, or at a wedding cake tasting. A quiet voice that says _don’t forget you own him. He can no more fail to be nice to you than your elevator can refuse to bear you up._

Eobard has never thought of himself as owning someone before. He finds it extremely distasteful. Nor can he explain fully, even to himself, why he should feel this way in Barry’s case when he doesn’t in, say, Cisco Ramon’s.

“I’m guessing you don’t like the chicken,” Eddie says to him.

Eobard blinks. Then he puts his fork down. “It’s fine.” Honestly, he can’t remember what it had tasted like. But he’s sure it’s fine.

“I’m not a fan myself,” Iris says from across the table. She takes a bite of salmon and her eyes widen. “Yum! That’s _much_ better.”

Eddie spins the tray of samples. “We can’t just serve salmon, though. I think we need a different caterer.”

“We have another appointment on Tuesday,” Iris says, eyeing her plate critically. “That’s the one you recommended, right, Eobard?”

Eobard nods. “They did an excellent job at Andromeda’s coming out last year, so I’m hopeful. You’ll have to let me know, though.”

“Will you not be joining us?”

“I can’t,” Eobard says. “There’s a STAR Labs gala that night.”

“Deserving schoolchildren?” Eddie asks.

Eobard makes a face. “Wealthy donors,” he sighs. He misses the days when STAR Labs had been an entirely self-funded, Thawne-controlled proposition. Oh, Thawne Industries still _controls_ STAR Labs. But mutual hand-washing is the name of the game. Allowing the other families to invest in STAR Labs had given them a stake in its success, which had opened doors in other areas. Much better for, say, the McGees to see STAR Labs as another cash cow than as competition for their own scientific subdivision, Mercury Labs. Really, aside from the need to hold semi-regular black-tie meet-and-greets with the investors, there’s no downside.

“Is Barry going to have to go to that?” Iris asks. “He said he wouldn’t be home until late Tuesday, but I didn’t hear why.”

“Yes, he ought to be there.”

“Why?” At Eobard’s baffled look, Iris clarifies her question. “Barry’s not a donor, right? Why will he be there?”

“Donors like to feel like they’re in control,” Eobard explains. “They want to touch the equipment, meet the researchers. Hear what they’re up to. It’s the human element. It makes them feel more connected to what they’re doing.”

“Even if they don’t understand a thing?”

Eobard shrugs. “Even if. Though you shouldn’t sell them short. There are many donors who make it their business to understand. And there are others for whom this literally _is_ this their business. I expect Tina McGee will attend, for example.”

Iris frowns around the bite of mashed potatoes she has, perhaps unwisely, attempted. Eobard can’t tell if the frown is for his answer or the food. Tonight’s caterer is one that Eobard often uses for STAR Labs events – in fact, they’ll be providing the food on Tuesday – but the gap between “corporate event” and “wedding” appears to have been too large for them to bridge. Eobard considers the tray of dessert samples and decides he’s fine, thank you very much.

“Uh, Iris,” Eddie is saying. “Does Barry have a tuxedo?”

Iris blinks. So, after a moment, does Eobard. He knows the answer even before Iris shakes her head. Of _course_ Barry doesn’t have a tuxedo. The West family can barely outfit their children with functioning vehicles – though Barry has proven vexingly fond of his old car, resisting Eobard’s attempts to have it replaced with a more modern company car – which is beside the point. The point is: _naturally_ Barry doesn’t have a tuxedo. It is therefore Eobard’s legal duty, under the terms of Barry’s employment contract, to provide him with one.

Eobard’s imagination slips its bounds and presents him with an artist’s conception of Barry in a tuxedo. He swallows.

Iris is staring at Eobard as if she knows what he’s thinking. Eobard swallows again and looks hastily down, away from Iris’ gaze. “Let me just get the ball rolling on that,” he says through his inexplicably dry throat.

It only takes a few seconds for Eobard to pull out his smartphone and send a text to Lisa, who handles wardrobe for the Thawne family. Getting her involved is a tad unorthodox – he’d handled Barry’s work wardrobe through the usual Thawne Industries staffing supply channels – but it’s technically legal. And there’s no one better for formalwear in a hurry than Lisa Snart.

That done, Eobard has to look up from his phone. Which means he gets to see Eddie and Iris sharing one of those speaking looks couples have been known to share, then turning their heads to stare at Eobard.

“What is it?” Eobard sighs. He’s been in enough hostile negotiations to recognize a situation that’s best gotten over with as soon as possible.

“Barry’s never been to one of these events before,” Iris says. She’s obviously choosing her words carefully, though Eobard can’t imagine why. Iris West has never been reticent about speaking the blunt truth to Eobard before now. It’s really a shame she couldn’t marry in to the Thawne family; she would be right at home, and they could use a few more like her.

Though, if that had been possible, many things would be different.

Which – Iris had been saying. Right. Eobard says, “Yes, I hadn’t thought he had.”

“Does he know what to do?” Iris asks. “Has he had, I don’t know, coaching?”

Eobard blinks. Surely Barry knows how to handle himself at such a minor Society function as this is going to be?

The look Eddie is giving Eobard has changed. It’s the look that says _I know what’s going through your head right now, and it’s wrong._

Eobard suddenly starts to worry about more than Mr. Allen’s lack of a tuxedo.

Iris’ gaze has gone flinty. “You said you would provide Barry with anything he needs to do his job,” she says flatly. “If he needs etiquette lessons to do his job properly, then you need to make sure he gets them.”

“The gala is in three days,” Eobard says blankly.

Iris doesn’t blink. “A contract is a contract.”

She is, of course, entirely correct. Eobard carefully restrains a sigh. “I will see what I can do.” He raises a hand quickly, before Iris can take exception to this response. “Recall that I will also be at the gala. As will the other members of Mr. Allen’s research pod – all of whom know how to move in Society. I will have a word with them particularly, and we will make sure your brother’s conduct will be, at least, unexceptionable.”

“I consider you personally responsible,” Iris says. Sitting next to her, Eddie looks faintly embarrassed, but nods firmly in support of his fiancée.

Eobard inclines his head. “As you say.”

Walking out to his car later, tasting done, Eobard doesn’t quite understand why Iris is so concerned. Certainly, a faux pas would be an unfortunate thing, but in the scheme of things it’s a small matter. Barry’s social stock has recently experienced a great leap forward. That’s not to say that there won’t be those who will hold his relative lack of polish against him. But in all honesty, the Rathaways and Tates of the city aren’t going to look past the surname _Allen_ no matter how excellent Barry’s manners might be. The better families will overlook the occasional minor stumble in favor of the opportunities Barry’s appearance on the stage presents.

Perhaps Iris is merely worried that Barry isn’t being treated fairly. Attendance at the STAR Labs galas is part of Barry’s job, but it’s also part of his compensation package. The duty to perform is balanced by the right to be presented to some of the first families of Central City and treat with them, however briefly, as a social equal. More than one savvy youth on a STAR Labs contract has parleyed that opportunity into advantage. Iris may simply be ensuring that Barry is receiving the full value of what he’s owed.

Yes, that must be it. Whatever else may be said about the Wests, they certainly have as strong a sense of family pride as anyone could wish. The real mystery is not why Iris is concerned about Barry’s prospects. The real mystery is how that feeling had not been transmitted to Barry himself, an Allen who doesn’t care that he’s an Allen, that he’s the last of a bloodline of which he should by no means be ashamed.

Eobard shrugs to himself as he gets into his car. Barry’s family name is ultimately his own business. Barry’s advancement is only Eobard’s concern due to his contract with STAR Labs – a contract that will inevitably expire. Eobard had best keep his attention on his own family where it belongs. At the end of the day, Barry Allen is none of his, and never will be.

* * *

Lisa Snart does wonders with Barry’s evening dress, but as Eobard had predicted, an intensive crash-course in formal etiquette is quite out of the question in the time available. Plan B will have to suffice. Eobard does as he’d promised, and takes each of Barry’s podmates aside to drop a word in their ear about the need to stick close to him and help him through any sticky situations that might eventuate.

“Certainly, Doctor Thawne,” Caitlin says easily when asked. “I’d be happy to help him out.” Eobard finds this extremely reassuring; Caitlin has gone through the process of introducing someone from a lower-class family to Society once already, after her marriage to Ronnie Snow (née Raymond). Mr. Snow had taken polish well and is quite well regarded by all but a few of the more snobbish families for his open manner and rough-hewn charm.

Cisco is equally willing to assist, though, as he himself admits, somewhat less able. “I’ll be honest, Dr. Thawne, there are days when I still don’t feel like I know what _I’m_ doing,” he says ruefully.

“You’ve always conducted yourself with dignity, Mr. Ramon,” Eobard says encouragingly.

“Yeah, yeah, and like my life coach always says, as long as my actions flow from my dignity they will be pleasing to the discriminating observer.” Cisco sighs. “The problem is, there are a lot of indiscriminating observers at an event like this, you know?”

Eobard does know. A gala like this draws two groups of people. The first, the McGees and Palmers of the city, will be there to talk technical and will ignore or outright fail to notice missteps of the mannerly kind. Barry will have no trouble with them. But the other group of people will be here to monitor the health of their investments – and to be seen to have made those investments, in what passes for a public setting amongst the cream of Central City society. They will not have mercy.

And speaking of the cream of Central City society – “I’m sorry, Dr. Thawne, I really am,” Hartley says, distraught. “My parents weren’t too sure what to make of Barry from the start, and I talked up the Allen connection, but once they realized he was a West cadet that was it. They think Iris is a gold-digger and Barry must be just the same. If I even look at Barry outside of work hours – ”

Hartley’s distress is obvious and upsetting. Eobard hastily drops a hand on Hartley’s shoulder, cutting the younger man off and hopefully arresting his rapid slide into an outright breakdown. Hartley is brilliant but fragile, and his parents have spent most of their life tearing Hartley down instead of building him up. Worse luck for Hartley, he’s the heir – his father is current head of their family – and all of his parents’ ambition, since Hartley had turned sixteen, had been to see him marry an appropriately blueblooded child from one of Central City’s premier families. A girl, by preference, so Hartley could breed a direct heir, but Hartley’s homosexuality had barely been a speed bump in their plans. The real value of any marriage is the connections and wealth it brings. Another Rathaway could inherit from Hartley, in their view, as long as Hartley married well first.

Really, the only reason Harold and Edna Rathaway had originally tolerated Hartley’s employment at STAR Labs had been because of the Thawne connection, and because Hartley’s position in the Tank had explicitly included the kind of exposure Barry is about to get Tuesday night. In Hartley’s case, though it had never been said, Eobard knows the expectation had been that Hartley would meet some other nice blueblood – say a Caitlin Snow or an Edward Thawne – and make them Mr./s. Hartley Rathaway. Then, presumably, Hartley would resign from STAR Labs and resume a lifetime of upholding the illustrious Rathaway family legacy.

As the years had passed and no well-bred spouse had appeared, Hartley’s position at STAR Labs had grown more precarious. Eobard’s involvement with the Tank had gone from being a benefit of the job to being even something of a detriment. At this point, it’s quite clear to Society that Eobard has no intention of marrying. Eobard had known his own preferences were for men from a young age, and his niece Meloni has been training as the Thawne family heir for most of her life, so there had never been any doubt over who would succeed Eobard. At first Eobard had vaguely intended to marry regardless. But ultimately it had never been worth the time he’d have to invest to find someone who doesn’t care that his name is Eobard Thawne.

As Hartley wants someone who doesn’t care that his name is Hartley Rathaway. The problem is, of course, that the sort of person who wouldn’t care is the sort of person who would never be acceptable to Hartley’s parents.

“If you help Barry, they’ll assume he’s playing his, ahem, gold-digger wiles off on you,” Eobard says aloud.

Hartley scrubs a hand across his face. “I can’t lose STAR Labs, Dr. Thawne, I just – I can’t,” he says pleadingly. “My parents could make me quit, and I – ”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Eobard says soothingly. “It’s all right.” He lets Hartley come in for the hug, and pats Hartley’s back soothingly, all the while mentally cursing out the Rathaways and their skewed sense of value.

But Caitlin and Cisco have promised to help, which is all to the good. And there’s always Eobard himself. As he’d observed to Iris West, he _will_ be in attendance. It is his gala, after all. If necessary, he will simply have Barry accompany him during the evening. Meloni had done so for years, as Eobard had introduced her around to all the people she would one day need to treat with as head of the family. Doing the same with Barry will be simple.

* * *

Doing the same with Barry is in no way simple.

Eobard sips his champagne with the same measured consumption he’d learned at the age of nine. The glass is a useful thing: one part prop for gestures, one part diversion, one part measure for buying a moment of time. The alcohol _in_ the glass is considerably less useful when consumed in excess. Hence the measured sip. The existence of the alcohol in the first place, instead of something less risky, is something in the nature of a trap: anyone foolish enough to imbibe too deeply is considered to deserve the results.

What a pity no one had ever taught that to Barry.

“Put your glass down,” Eobard orders out of the side of his mouth, waving to a passing waiter. The man obligingly holds out his tray, and Barry deposits his glass on it. Eobard sees to his dismay that there is very little left in it beyond foam.

“I’ve never had champagne that tasted quite like that,” Barry says, faint awe coloring his tone. “Maybe there _is_ something to the notion that being expensive makes something better.”

“You’re not supposed to drink it like it’s lemonade,” Eobard sighs. “It’s there for show.”

Barry doesn’t say anything to this, but Eobard makes the mistake of glancing at him. There’s a mulish expression on his face that Eobard has no trouble interpreting as _only people with too much money would buy something expensive you’re not supposed to use._

Looking at Barry had been a mistake. Eobard focuses his gaze forward hastily, but not before his unhelpful brain had taken a mental snapshot of the image Barry makes, sharp in his new tuxedo, and tucked it away for future use. Lisa Snart had outdone herself. And she’d known it, too, coming by earlier in the day to drop off Eobard’s tuxedo – and gloat.

“I usually send one of my assistants to do this kind of drop-off – ” Lisa had been holding one of Eobard’s tuxedoes, the one for tonight’s gala, which she’d begun to lay out in Eobard’s dressing room – carefully, despite her careless words; Lisa Snart is nothing if not precise – “but I just _had_ to come express my thanks in person.”

“Thanks?” Eobard had asked, somewhat blankly.

“For turning me on to that delicious little morsel of yours.” Lisa’s lips had curved upwards, too salacious and full of intent to be called a smile. “Allen, he said. Not too blue in the bloodline for a girl to dream about. And let me tell you, honey, he cleans up _nice._ ”

Lisa’s throaty growl, usually amusing to Eobard, had somehow rubbed him the wrong way that time. “He’s not a slab of meat,” Eobard had said shortly.

“No, he’s a dressmaker’s dream.” Lisa had sighed wistfully. “Once upon a time, he would have been in such demand as a living mannequin… really, Eobard, I almost resent the holographic technology you invented.”

Eobard’s lips had tightened. “But then how would you spend your time off?” he’d countered, keeping his voice deliberately light.

Which hadn’t fooled Lisa in the slightest. “Ouch,” she’d said, equally light. “I suppose I should have realized you’d already have staked your claim.”

And hadn’t _that_ infuriated Eobard, to have been so childish and so transparent at the same time. “There is nothing of the sort going on,” he’d said coldly. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Lisa had smiled. She’d finished laying out the tuxedo’s accouterments and turned to go. “You needn’t worry. There are easier preserves than yours, even if I _were_ inclined to poach.”

She’d been gone before Eobard could have formed a reply. In retrospect, that had been fortunate. Eobard doesn’t know what he would have said, but as he keeps his gaze fixed forward and refuses to look at Barry, he knows it would have been utterly hypocritical.

Barry looks – he looks – _astonishing_ , is probably the best word Eobard could use. The tuxedo is bringing out a physical beauty Eobard hadn’t even realized someone could have. As much as Eobard had paid for Barry’s work wardrobe, Eobard realizes now it’s been selling Barry utterly short. What the standard shirt-and-pants combo had made seem towering, the tuxedo transforms into statuesque. _Skinny_ has become _slender. Gawky_ has become _grace_. Uncontrolled gestures have become statements of power. The formalwear highlights Barry’s incredible bone structure, and Eobard cannot look at Barry without wanting to take every inch of it off of him.

It’s embarrassing. Eobard has lived fifty years in this world as first the heir and then the head of one of the most powerful families in Central City. His imperturbability and unflappability are bywords among blueblood Society, both in business and in pleasure. Over the years there have been no shortage of beautiful faces who have attempted to become Eobard’s husband. Eobard has withstood them all. But along comes this skinny boy with the brilliant mind and the lightning-bolt eyes and the social graces of a three-day-old puppy, and suddenly Eobard can’t even bear to look at Barry.

 _He’s Nora’s son,_ Eobard reminds himself brutally. _You owe her a debt. You owe Barry the fulfillment of his contract. What happens if he catches you staring at him? What happens if he thinks this is part of the terms of his continued employment? He has nowhere else to go. If he breaches the contract, he doesn’t just ruin himself. He ruins his sister. He ruins his whole family._

Barry may not have family pride like Eobard has family pride, but Eobard doesn’t fool himself that Barry wouldn’t smile at his boss in order to keep the Wests from utter ruin.

Barry says something. Belatedly Eobard focuses, turns to Barry, and almost loses his train of thought again. He clutches for his composure with both hands. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked who they were.” Barry at least knows better than to make any obvious gesture, pointing or waving in the direction of the people he means. A shift of his gaze is enough to signal Eobard.

Looking away from Barry is a relief. The green of his eyes are brilliant under the lights of the gala; they seem to see too much, when they look at Eobard. Unfortunately, Barry’s targets are not calculated to lower Eobard’s blood pressure.

“Harold and Edna Rathaway.” And their son, of course, is with them. “Hartley’s parents.”

“That explains why he’s with them, but not why he looks so unhappy,” Barry says. “Should I go over and give him an out?”

“Under no circumstances.” Barry looks surprised, and a little bit hurt. Eobard says, “His parents aren’t the sort to look past your class. Hartley would appreciate the gesture, but you’d do more harm than good.”

Barry is silent for a moment, processing this. At last he says, “I feel like there’s more to the story than you’re telling me.”

Eobard tips his head to the side. An acknowledgement, if not a promise. “It’s not my story to tell. Ask Hartley, if you like, though he may not want to share it.” Eobard lets his gaze unfocus, sweep the larger gathering. He spots a familiar face lingering by the show lab’s particle accelerator and starts off towards it. “Come along, Mr. Allen. Let’s introduce you to Tina McGee.”

“Oh,” Barry says, startled, and trots a little to catch up.

“No coffee cups,” Tina says to Eobard in her pleasant accept as they approach, skipping the pleasantries in a way only she could get away with. “No scribbles on the white board. No transistors on the workbench. I know why you keep a show lab for these events, Eobard, but I have to say it gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“I know the feeling,” Eobard agrees, feeling his face relax into a genuine smile for what may be the first time tonight. He exchanges cheek kisses with her. “But if I tried to show half of these people a real working lab, they’d be horrified.”

“Ah, well, it’s a good thing the other half of us know better than to think this is what the research is really like.” Tina shares a conspiratorial smile with Eobard. Then her gaze switches to Eobard’s side, and her smile becomes more generic, stretches to include Barry. “And who is this?”

Tina already knows, of course – she reads the newspapers – but Eobard makes the formal introduction anyway. “Tina, this is Barry Allen, brother of my cousin Edward’s fiancée. Barry, Tina McGee, head of the McGee family.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Barry says creditably. He becomes a little less stiff when he adds, “I interned with your family’s company Mercury Labs while I was a graduate student. The experience was really incredible. I feel very fortunate to have had that opportunity.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Tina says. Most bluebloods would be speaking by rote, but there’s a warmth in Tina’s eyes Eobard hopes Barry notices. “Though perhaps a little miffed that Eobard is reaping the benefits!” This, she softens with a laugh and a pat of Eobard’s shoulder, so there can be no mistake about her good humor.

Nevertheless, Barry stiffens back up. “Oh, but… there were circumstances…”

Eobard clears his throat and intervenes before the conversation can veer into any topic that might be considered gauche. “Well, well, Barry’s contract isn’t for life, Tina. You may yet have a chance with him.”

“I’ll look forward to seizing that opportunity,” Tina says genially.

Barry blinks and darts a look to Eobard, as if it had just now occurred to him that there would come a day when he would be free to seek out another job. Eobard’s spirits, already disturbingly mercurial, dip decidedly. How trapped does Barry feel in his contract, if he’s startled to think that he might be free of it one day?

Well, then, it’s all to the good for Barry to start considering it. Eobard is glad he’s introduced Tina to Barry. Perhaps it will be for the best for Eobard to not even offer a renewal of Barry’s contract when the three years are up. Barry should experience employment at other labs. Gain a sense of what else is out there.

“You should remind Tina she said that one day,” Eobard says to Barry, by way of encouraging him to contemplate his eventual freedom.

It doesn’t seem to work. Barry only looks more off-kilter, not less.

“I’m sure Mr. Allen will have many options,” Tina says, clearly noticing it too. Attempting to change the subject, she says to Barry, “If I may say so without giving pain, I knew your mother. It’s hard to believe we’ve been without her for so long. But if you’ll forgive a meddling old woman – I think she’d be proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Barry whispers.

“Come, now, if you’re old, what does that make me?” Eobard protests to Tina, feeling as if the mood has turned for the somber and trying to lighten it.

“Well-preserved,” Tina says, following Eobard readily into the lighter topic. “Look at you. How do you look so good? You’re being eyed by half the debutantes in the room, you know.”

“All of whom are half my age,” Eobard says uncomfortably. _Like Barry Allen is half my age._

“Come now, Mr. Allen, help me out here,” Tina says to Barry. “Surely you agree that age is no real barrier to love?”

Eobard nearly chokes. Barry actually does choke. Eobard casts about hastily for something to say, but his legendary social poise has deserted him, and Barry actually beats him to the punch.

“Excuse me,” is what Barry says. “I – I see another member of my pod waving to me.” Barry manages a polite enough smile and bob of his head, but the way he all but flees makes it all too obvious what this really is – a retreat.

Eobard and Tina watch Barry walk away in mutual silence. Barry vanishes quickly into the crowd. There’s no one else from his pod in sight; Eobard thinks, distantly, that he’s going to have to educate Barry on the proper way to tell a polite lie.

“Eobard,” Tina says eventually, “do you know what you’re doing?”

He should have known Tina would spot the uncomfortable undertones. Eobard tries to smile, but his polite smile is missing, and try as Eobard might, he can’t summon it back. “Do you know,” he sighs, “I’m very much afraid I don’t.”

Tina’s gaze turns sympathetic, as does her hand on Eobard’s arm. “I thought that might be the case,” she says. She glances around, then shrugs and sets her glass of champagne on the pristine lab table next to her. “Come on. Let’s find a quiet corner, and you can tell me all about it.”

Eobard probably shouldn’t, but he’s more tired than he can explain, and the prospect of a sympathetic ear from one of the few people he can trust not to use anything he might say against him is irresistible. He lets Tina tug him away, but not without looking through the crowd one more time. He tells himself he’s just trying to make sure Barry has found Caitlin or Cisco. That Barry hasn’t been pigeonholed by someone out to do him harm, like Hartley’s parents. Eobard tells himself he doesn’t just want to see Barry again, in that too-sharp tuxedo that destroys all of Eobard’s comforting lies.

It doesn’t matter what Eobard tells himself. He doesn’t see Barry again.


	6. Chapter 6

The gala isn’t noisy in the way that most large events are noisy, but there’s a steady hum of conversation and the occasional whir of machinery being demonstrated for a donor’s benefit. Eobard lets Tina pull him aside to a small nook created by the odd shape of the particle accelerator’s control panel. They’re not exactly hiding from the gala – that would generate too much gossip of the wrong kind, even though any lingering Society hope of Eobard and Tina making a match of it had been quelled when they’d each succeeded to being head of their respective families. But they’re enough distant from the proceedings that it would take a special effort for anyone to disturb them. Better, the noise level has dropped enough that they can lower their voices, too.

“Now,” Tina says. “I saw the press release. If that young man is Nora’s son there’s no doubt he’s brilliant, so set that aside. Why did you _really_ hire him? Please, tell me it wasn’t because of his pretty face.”

“Tina!” Eobard looks around quickly. “You can’t just say things like that!”

“Eobard, you were looking at him like he was the Nobel prize you didn’t win in ’96!” Eobard winces; that still stings, even twenty years later. That loss, even more than the beginning of the illness that had ultimately taken Emilia Thawne from this world, had been what had really convinced Eobard it had been time to give up being a full-time scientist and broaden his focus to running Thawne Industries as a whole.

Tina is still giving Eobard a reproachful look. “I’ve seen you in lust a dozen times before, and you’ve never had any trouble getting someone to warm your bed. You certainly haven’t had to hand them a lucrative contract or marry your cousin into their family to do it.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Eobard demands through gritted teeth. “You know what you’re saying is utterly ludicrous.”

“Of course it is,” Tina says without a trace of regret. “And yet you’re angry.”

That takes the wind out of Eobard’s sails. He droops.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows you well,” Tina says, dropping the antagonistic tone in favor of something more comforting. “I’ve never seen you this smitten, though. How long has it been?”

“Six weeks,” Eobard admits.

“Six – Eobard Thawne!” Tina smacks his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Tell you _what_? That I was inappropriately infatuated with the son of one of our former research colleagues, who is bound by his contract and his sister’s engagement to keep me happy?”

“That you were in love!”

Eobard nearly swallows his own tongue. He has to count to ten three times – the second two times in Greek and Latin, respectively – before he can say anything in response that isn’t a primal scream.

“I’m not in love,” he says at last, each word so precisely enunciated as to be clipped. Tina starts to say something; Eobard holds up a hand, cutting her off. “I _can’t_ be in love.”

“Give me one good reason why not,” Tina says. “And before you speak – pretend I’m the Nobel committee.”

This is a low blow. “Barry is under contract to me.”

“No, he’s under contract to Thawne Industries. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Tina sighs at Eobard’s glower. “Of course you’re in a position of power over him; I wouldn’t minimize that. But unless you gave him a particularly abusive contract – ”

“I would never!”

“I know,” Tina soothes. “So he has recourse. If he’s uncomfortable, if he doesn’t want to interact with you, if the two of you attempt something and it goes sour, well, that’s why you pay your HR department so handsomely.”

“But then there’s Iris and Eddie’s situation.”

Tina shrugs. “Two weddings are better than one.”

“Oh, God, wouldn’t that just be a scandal,” Eobard says bleakly.

“I’ll deck anyone who dares to say that Nora Allen’s son isn’t good enough for you,” Tina says, with a flash of the pugilism that has served her well in clawing her family’s fortunes back up from the mess they’d been when she’d inherited.

Eobard only wishes a willingness to fight were enough. “Society’s already calling Iris a gold-digger. They’ll do worse to Barry if they find out I’m – ”

“In love,” Tina says. “You can say it.”

No. No, Eobard really can’t.

“He’s _under_ _contract_ ,” Eobard says instead. The plaintive note is clear even to his own ears. “How would I ever know he was saying anything other than what he thought I wanted to hear?”

“You let him make the first move,” Tina says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What you _don’t_ do is scare him off beforehand.”

“It’s probably already too late,” Eobard sighs.

Tina’s smile has a decided edge of mischief. “Not if the way _he_ was looking at _you_ is to be believed.”

Eobard eyes her. “What do you mean?” He tries to sound cool, unconcerned, and only mildly curious. He comforts himself with the thought that he at least manages not to sound desperate.

“Oh, please. Didn’t you see how green his eyes got when you smiled at me?”

“His eyes are always green.”

“Not this particular shade, Eobard.”

It takes Eobard an embarrassingly long moment to process what Tina is saying. Barry? _Jealous_?

“Look, I’m not saying you should go sweep him off his feet,” Tina says. “Much as I’d like to see that. But just… be open to the possibility, okay? Make yourself open, and see what happens.”

Eobard doesn’t know what to say. Tina notices and grins.

“Good, I’ve gotten through to you,” she says comfortably. “At least you didn’t try any nonsense about your being too old. I would have smacked you for that one.”

“I _am_ too old,” Eobard mutters rebelliously.

Tina yawns. Theatrically. “I didn’t hear that.”

“Just because there’s a history of May-December marriages in your family –”

There’s a soft buzz in Eobard’s pocket. Eobard ignores it automatically, until suddenly his mind catches up. His phone’s set to _do not disturb_ for this event. Only someone with the override code could be contacting him. Which they wouldn’t do unless it were some kind of an emergency –

Eobard nearly drops his phone fumbling it out of his picket. Tina is looking at him in undisguised concern. “What is it?”

The notification pops up on his screen. It’s a text. From Gideon. It says –

“Eobard?” Tina’s hand is warm on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to go,” Eobard whispers. “I – oh my God.” His skin is prickling under his expensive tux, breaking out into a cold sweat.

“I’ll tell your niece you were called away,” Tina says briskly. “She can handle the rest of this. Go on.”

“Thank you,” Eobard says, hardly aware of what he’s saying. “I’ll – ”

“Go out the back. Yes. I see Meloni right over there. Go _on,_ Eobard.”

Eobard thinks he hugs Tina in thanks. He’s not sure. It’s something of a blur, and his vision doesn’t seem to be working quite right. All he knows is that one moment he’s in the show lab, and that the next, he’s outside STAR Labs, the night air cool on his face, and his driver scrambling to turn the engine on and open the door for him.

It’s a long drive back to the Thawne Industries building.

* * *

The Thawne Industries building is an old one, located in the heart of downtown. It hadn’t been built to be the headquarters of a large conglomerate. The woman who had built it hadn’t yet been a blueblood. She’d had a dream of owning her own business, and moved out to Central City when it had been newly founded. Land had been cheap, labor had been plentiful, and she’d prospered.

Many of the other blueblood families in Central City had come with their names and fortunes already intact. They’d purpose-built buildings with large conference spaces and glittering executive suites. The Thawne Industries building had been built to work. And no mater how many times it had been renovated, it still shows, on the inside.

But no matter the interior, all the buildings on Park Row share the same view.

Eobard loves the view. It stretches out over downtown, past the perimeter, and includes at its edges the river winding around the city like a snake. On a clear day he can even see the glittering spires of Keystone City, across the bridges that link the two. And on a cloudy day, Eobard revels in the sense of quiet and isolation. The illusory freedom from all the demands of his life.

He wishes it were cloudy today. But the sun in high in the sky now, and there’s nary a wisp. Today he’ll be able to see for miles and miles.

Heads of families are _supposed_ to be farsighted. They’re supposed to always have one eye on the long term, and make decisions that position their family for future success as well as immediate comfort and happiness.

Sometimes Eobard can watch a new company being started, track their strategy and their positioning, and invest at the right time to make another fortune. Sometimes Eobard looks at a young couple in love and spots the employment contract that will solve all their problems. And sometimes Eobard has to watch calamity coming and see that there’s no way to escape.

Eobard’s desk phone buzzes. “Excuse me, Dr. Thawne,” Gideon says. “Edward and Miss West are here.”

“Send them in, please,” Eobard says wearily.

The door opens a moment later, and Eobard turns from the windows to face them. Eddie looks fairly calm, but then, he’d always been inclined to view a glass as being half full. Iris looks apprehensive. She’s already sensed something isn’t right.

Eobard doesn’t have the reserves necessary to put her at her ease. He’s too tired to be blunt. They take chairs in awkward silence and wait for Eobard to speak.

He says, “Two months ago, immediately after announcing your engagement, we naturally filed the necessary paperwork to apply for a marriage license. This comes with the usual public disclosure of your individual identities and assets, as well as similar information, to a reduced degree, about your families.”

Eddie nods. Iris says, “So?”

“So. I received notice last night that a formal lien has been filed against your marriage.”

Eddie, who had been letting his attention stray to the admittedly remarkable new Mendoza landscape Eobard has had put up in this office since the last time Eddie has been here, snaps his head back around to Eobard so fast that Eobard can hear his joints popping. His shock is obvious. Iris’ reaction is different. She displays less emotion, not more, turning into a statue in the comfortable chair she occupies. Not for the first time Eobard regrets he couldn’t have her for a Thawne.

“Who?” Eddie sputters. “What? Why?”

“That is what our lawyers have spent the intervening time discovering.” Eobard hands them copies of the relevant information, but rather than wait for them to wade through the dry legal filings, he continues. “The good news, if there can be said to be good news, is that it’s not actually about either of you.”

“What’s the bad news?” Iris has flipped right past the lien’s terminology and reached the second packet of information. The attached photograph flutters out as she turns pages, and she reaches down to pick it up. “Barry?”

“I understand your confusion,” Eobard says, “but according to a sworn affidavit submitted by the Cobalts of Opal City, the picture you are holding is in fact of their family head. Malcolm Cobalt, to be precise.”

“He looks just like Barry,” Eddie breathes, craning his neck to look at the picture Iris is holding. Her hand trembles faintly.

“Thus is the crux of their filing.” Eobard finds his own hands are not as steady as he’d like. Almost automatically he folds them, concealing their disobedience. “Limited data on the West family was part of the paperwork for your marriage license. Among other things, biographical information. Including, as a member of the West family, Barry Allen.

“Based on that, and based on the incredible physical likeness between the two men therein named, the Cobalts are seeking a DNA test to determine whether or not Barry Allen is, in fact, Michael Cobalt.”

“Who the fuck is Michael Cobalt?” Eddie demands.

Iris has continued paging through her packet. She’s found the third set of documents it contains. The kidnapping report filed twenty-five years ago by Charlene Cobalt.

“According to this, he’s Malcolm’s twin brother,” Iris reads in horror.

Eobard says, “Twenty-five years ago Charlene Cobalt was admitted to Central City Women’s Center – which at that time was not part of the greater Central City General Hospital Complex – to deliver her twin sons. The delivery was apparently difficult, and both of the children were admitted to what we could today call the NICU. Two days later Charlene was told that her younger son, Michael, had died. However, when she was asked to identify the body, she refused. She insisted that the child they showed her was not Michael at all.”

“How can that _happen_?”

“Unfortunately, I am told that identification of infants was not as stringent in those days as it is now,” Eobard says, with (he thinks) remarkable self-control.

“So when they wouldn’t produce the right infant, she filed a kidnapping report,” Eddie says. “This – this is _terrible_ police work!” He sounds personally offended. “The officers on the case barely interviewed Charlene! They didn’t talk to the doctors or the nurses, or any of the other families at the hospital on the same night, or anything! They even let people keep taking babies home after the report was filed!”

“As nearly as we can tell – and bear in mind we’ve known about this for perhaps twelve hours – no one believed Charlene,” Eobard says. “Her husband, the previous head of the family, identified the body as Michael’s after Charlene would not. The prevailing assumption was that Charlene’s refusal to do so was due to grief. She was, in fact, diagnosed with post-partum psychosis shortly thereafter, and at one point was admitted to a mental health facility. Afterwards she told police that she had been mistaken and that the body had been Michael’s. The case was accordingly closed.”

“This photograph doesn’t say the case is closed,” Iris says. She’s gotten herself back under control: her voice is as steady as Eobard has ever heard it. “This photograph says Charlene Cobalt was _right._ ”

“That is the purport of the family’s filing,” Eobard agrees. “They now contest that there is reason to believe that the dead infant Charlene Cobalt was shown twenty-five years ago was the true Barry Allen, and that the child Nora and Henry Allen raised as Barry is and always has been Michael Cobalt.”

Eddie is gone back through the case paperwork again. “If we can get the birthing center’s records and prove that the Allens were nowhere near there that night – ”

“Believe me, that was the first thing we did,” Eobard says. For the first time he hears how he sounds. Tired, mainly. And oddly subdued. “I’m certain the Cobalts checked that before filing their claim as well. Barry’s birth certificate gives his date of birth as the nineteenth of March instead of the seventeenth, but that will be in reference to the original child, if indeed a swap took place. Nora Allen was three doors down the hall. Her stay overlapped with Charlene Cobalt’s by thirty-six hours.”

“How didn’t the mothers realize someone was taking away their child?” Iris says indignantly.

“In today’s age of rooming-in and early mother-child bonding, it’s easy to forget how things used to be,” Eobard says gently. “It was common practice in those days to keep newborns in a nursery, separated from their parents. As I said, the Allens’ stay overlapped with the Cobalts’ by thirty-six hours. There’s enough time in there to make a swap.”

“Not an innocent one,” Eddie says grimly. “However you look at it, _one_ baby died that night.”

That pronouncement casts something of a pall over the room. There’s a moment of silence while everyone absorbs Eddie’s implications.

Then Iris shakes herself and shoves the photograph of Malcolm Cobalt back in between the sheets of the long-ago kidnapping report. “Okay, the Cobalts think Barry’s their kid,” she says. “That’s a big deal, absolutely, but – how does it lead to them getting a lien against our marriage license? What does it have to do with Eddie and I, except that our filing gave them the information on Barry?”

Eobard looks at her. Next to Iris, Eddie grimaces. He already knows what it has to do with Barry. He’d learned family economics and inheritance law from the same excellent schools that Eobard had. But he gives Eobard a pleading look, clearly not wanting to have to be the one to explain it to Iris.

Eobard sighs. Eddie is still a Thawne; Eddie has the right to ask this of Eobard, as much as he, too, doesn’t want to do it.

“The lien is financial,” Eobard says, as gently as he can manage. “If the DNA test is positive, the Cobalts are petitioning to have Barry’s familial association reassigned.”

Iris still looks blank.

“They want him for their family,” Eobard elaborates. “He, and his contract with STAR Labs, and his one point two million dollars.”

The filing for a marriage license doesn’t just include bloodline. It also includes a public declaration of the agreed-upon dowry-price, and the creation of a special account in which is placed, in escrow, the amount in question. This demonstrates that the money is real while simultaneously preventing the receiving family from taking it and running. The money had originally been Barry’s, and that information had been disclosed as well. And so it is also frozen by the Cobalts’ lien.

Iris gasps. “They can’t!”

“Of course they can,” Eddie says tiredly at her side. “If Barry’s their blood, he belongs to them, and all his assets, too.”

“They can’t just wave around a DNA test and take Barry away! So what if he’s really Michael Cobalt? Nora and Henry raised him until they died, and then _Joe_ raised him! There was a legal adoption! Doesn’t that matter?”

Eobard shakes his head. “If Barry is really Michael, he never had the legal standing to seek adoption,” he says. “He was not his own to dispose of.”

“The contract was made in good faith! Unless someone is accusing Barry of having kidnapped _himself_ – ”

“We can argue good faith,” Eobard agrees. “And in view of that, there are unlikely to be any penalties levied against either Barry or the West family over having sought or accepted that adoption. But nevertheless it will, in all likelihood, be invalidated by a judge.”

“Have they gotten the order for the DNA test?” Eddie asks.

“Not yet. But it shouldn’t be more than a day or two.”

“Have you told Barry yet?”

“No.”

“You have to tell him,” Iris says.

“I know.”

“You should have told him first!”

“I know,” Eobard repeats, quietly now.

“This may be good news to him,” Iris says. It sounds like she’s trying to convince himself. “He – he may have family out there. Blood family.”

“You’re his family,” Eobard says. He may not know much about Barry Allen, but he knows that much. “You should know how little he cares about blood.”

“Are they nice people?” Iris looks back down at the file. At the picture of Malcolm. “These Cobalts. Do you know them?”

“The family left Central City shortly after the supposed death of their son. They are residents of Opal City now. I don’t know them, no. I hadn’t heard of them, either.”

“They’re not bluebloods then,” Iris says.

Eobard shrugs impatiently. “I imagine they will be eager to meet Barry. He can form his own opinion.”

“You seem to have already formed one,” Eddie says, shrewdly enough.

Eobard shakes his head, not because he is dismissing the question, but because he’s not sure how to reply. He’s fairly certain the majority of his distaste for the Cobalts and their lawsuit stem from his foolish feelings of possessiveness towards Barry Allen. They do Eobard no credit, and he would prefer not to share him. Another, smaller portion of his distaste is outrage on behalf of his old friend Nora. She had believed herself to have a son. Had raised him as hers, and loved him, as nearly as Eobard can tell. Eobard had been dismayed enough when he’d learned that Barry Allen had had no plans of carrying on Nora’s bloodline. This attempt by the Cobalts to assert that Barry is no Allen at all cuts even deeper. But if the real Barry Allen had died as an infant, then has there ever been any legacy of Nora’s to protect?

Blood will tell the tale. It always does, in the end.

“Your instincts are usually good, Eo,” Eddie presses. “What’s bugging you?”

Eobard frowns.

His instincts _are_ usually good. He relies on them; always has, to the discomfort of others in his family. Thawnes are analytical, as a bunch. They tend not to trust what they can’t quantify. But Eobard’s instincts have been right more often than mere chance could justify. He’s learned to listen to them.

And… and yes, now that Eobard thinks about it, though the fog of a long night with no sleep and emotions he can’t quite tame… there _is_ something bugging him.

The money.

It’s an unavoidable point. The Cobalts would have seen the dowry-price well before they had ever dug through to Barry’s biographical information. There’s no hope of them being untainted by that knowledge.

They may be nothing other than a grieving family who sees a chance to finally be made whole. Charlene and Hugo are long dead, but Malcolm Cobalt will have grown up with a hole by his side where his twin ought to have been. It requires no financial greed to want to meet a long-lost brother.

Meet. No. No greed is required to want to _meet_ him. And to request a DNA test is only reasonable. If Barry isn’t Michael, that may sadden Malcolm and the Cobalts, but they’ll know better than to get involved. An honest mistake and everyone goes their separate ways. If Barry _is_ Michael, then the Cobalts can get to know him. Introduce him to the family that should have been his. Decide how to proceed.

But. But the Cobalts have already started the legal ball rolling for the next steps, on the assumption that the DNA test _does_ come back positive. They’ve put a hold on Barry’s assets. They’ve petitioned a judge for reassignment of familial affiliation. And they aren’t just asking that Barry’s last name be changed. Eobard can still see the paperwork when he blinks. They’re asking for – no, demanding – full control. Legal, financial and social.

They are, in other words, snatching.

And it sets Eobard’s teeth on edge, in exactly the same way as when he looks at the books for a company he’s considering partnering with, and catches the first hint of malfeasance.

“I think,” Eobard says slowly, “ – with absolutely no justification, mind you… I think they might not have been so quick to file if Barry had not had one point two million dollars in the bank and a contract with STAR Labs.”

Iris and Eddie are looking at each other, once again communicating without words. Their conversation ends with Iris turning back to face Eobard.

“I don’t think Barry’s contract covers this,” she says, “so I’m not demanding – but I’m asking. He’s going to need support on this.”

“He’s got you,” Eobard can’t help pointing out. “He’s got Joe West.”

“And I want to know he has you too,” Iris insists. “We don’t have lawyers. We don’t have experts. You do.”

Eddie leans forward. “You may think you’re being subtle about it, but I’ve known you my whole life, Eo. I know you care about Barry.”

“It’s not – ” Eobard sputters. Belatedly his common sense returns and he shuts his mouth with a snap. Denying it will only make him sound more guilty. As Emilia had always told him: better to let the world _think_ ill of you, than open your mouth and remove all doubt.

Eddie is giving Eobard a look that means Eobard isn’t going to get away with this one, anyway. “I respect why you’re trying to keep it to yourself,” he says. “But Barry needs someone in his corner who know all the dirty tricks the Cobalts might pull, if it turns out they are more interested in his money than his happiness.”

“As much as I love my dad, that’s not him,” Iris agrees.

Eobard closes his eyes briefly. First Tina McGee; now Eddie. And to a lesser extent, apparently, Iris West. Is there anyone who _doesn’t_ know about Eobard’s obsession with Barry Allen?

Well. The Cobalts, presumably, don’t know. Or they would know better than to try to take Barry away from him.

And that is dangerous thinking. Barry isn’t his, to begin with. And there’s no reason becoming Michael Cobalt should prevent Barry from continuing to work at STAR Labs. From continuing to be as much a part of Eobard’s life as their differing stations and expectations permit.

No reason except the jangling of Eobard’s instincts that say this is about to get very nasty very quickly.

“You’re not the only one who has a bad feeling about this,” Eddie says. He’s looking at Charlene Cobalt’s admission forms to Arkham Asylum, and he taps one finger against a particular string of numerals. “Charlene’s commitment was involuntary, Eo. Something’s rotten here.”

“We hadn’t caught that,” Eobard says, startled.

“You would’ve eventually, I’m sure. I just happen to know most of the codes by heart.” Eddie’s shrug is a self-deprecating reference to his profession. “Someone should check that out.”

“We’ll subpoena the full records. Thank you, Eddie.”

“No problem.” Eddie and Iris exchange another glance, then stand together. “You should talk to Barry.”

“Yes,” Eobard sighs.

“Tell him I’ll be at home if he wants to come by,” Iris says. “I… _we_ have to go tell Joe.”

“Good luck with that,” Eobard says. Having met Joe West over the formal engagement paperwork, and again at some of the social events surrounding Eddie and Iris’ engagement, he does not underestimate the man’s probable reaction to this news.

“You too,” Eddie says seriously.

Iris gives Eobard another look.

“I’ll help Barry,” Eobard promises her. He shouldn’t, he thinks. But he can’t find it in himself to do any less. “I’ll help him any way I can.”

“Thank you,” Iris says, soft but sincere.

They leave.

Eobard leans back in his chair, and allows himself a moment to close his eyes and just… breathe _._

Eobard had known Nora. He likes to think he knows Barry now. At least a little, at least the parts of himself Barry has been willing to share. There’s no denying how much of Nora there is in Barry.

There’s no denying it – but there’s also no denying that the first time Eobard had met Barry, he hadn’t been able to see much of Nora in him physically. The parts of Nora that live on in Barry are her spirit. Her outlook. Her philosophy. All things she’d taught her son at her knee. All things that require no genetic tie to pass down.

Eobard thinks of the electric green eyes that are Barry’s most striking physical characteristic. How he’d thought, even in that first interview, _they must have come from the Garrick side._

But Henry Garrick had had brown eyes.

No certain disqualifier, that. Eobard had been drawing Punnett squares for fun before he’d entered kindergarten. The eyes could have come from elsewhere in the connection. Or from others in the Allen family. Green eyes are recessive; they could have lingered for generations… except that Charlene Cobalt had had those exact eyes, startling even in the photograph Eobard had seen, taken on her wedding day.

Blood is blood. Blood is everything. Eobard is a Thawne, the head of his family: he has lived his whole life by that maxim.

It’s never felt like a curse, before.

There’s a soft knock on the door. Eobard opens his eyes in time to see Gideon enter his office.

“Dr. Thawne?” she asks gently.

Eobard rubs his eyes tiredly. “Any news?”

“Nothing yet.”

Eobard nods. He turns in his chair, staring back out the window. There still isn’t a cloud in the sky.

“Shall I have Mr. Allen brought here?” Gideon prompts, when Eobard says nothing further.

Eobard rests his forehead against the glass. Down below him, the people of the city get on with their lives.

“No,” Eobard says finally. “I’ll go to him.”


	7. Chapter 7

Barry stumbles in late to work the morning after the gala, feeling like he’s been washed and hung out to dry. He’d like to blame it on the champagne, but he knows better than that. He’d only had the one glass. He’d contemplated another after his ungraceful exit from the Eobard Thawne/Tina McGee Love Fest, but he hadn’t been able to spot a waiter. He also hadn’t been able to rid himself of the memory of Thawne scolding Barry for having drunk the _first_ glass. What does Thawne care, anyway? Barry’s an adult. He can drink champagne if he wants to. Thawne’s disapproval doesn’t mean anything to him.

Also on the list of things that don’t mean anything to Barry: Tina McGee; Tina McGee’s smiling eyes and warm laugh; Eobard’s return smile; the two of them exchanging cheek kisses; the way Eobard’s – damn it, Thawne’s – shoulders had relaxed and his smile had come more naturally when he’d looked at Tina then when he’d looked at anyone else that night –

It’s none of Barry’s business. Anyway, it’s a good match. That’s what bluebloods care about, right? Good matches? They’re both rich and smart. They’re practically made for each other.

“Are you okay?” Cisco asks.

Barry realizes he’s standing in the middle of his lab breathing hard. “Fine,” he says curtly, shucking off his jacket. He wants to toss it across the back of his chair, the way he used to always do with his outerwear, but makes himself hang it up nicely on the hook mounted on the back of his lab’s door. It’s too nice a jacket to be mistreated. Well, it had better be, hadn’t it? It’s part of Barry’s compensation package. Barry has a _contract_. One that will end.

Why hadn’t he ever realized that Eobard Thawne sees him as nothing more than numbers on a page? A vehicle for moving money around? A pawn in his Society chess game?

Why does Barry even _care_?

“Uh-huh,” Cisco says disbelievingly. “Well, do you want to come be okay out with the rest of us? We were going to tackle the materials tests today, remember?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Barry runs a hand through his hair and joins the rest of his pod in their shared workspace. _Get it together, Barry._

Hartley has written the previously agreed-upon test plan on one of the sliding whiteboards, and they divide and conquer. Cisco’s latest notion is a fabric that, in theory, is extremely low-friction and heat-reductive. If successful, there are a number of possible real-world applications. Cisco’s original target market had been high-end athletes – “Imagine the Olympic speed-skating team with suits made out of this!” Hartley had suggested aerospace applications. Caitlin, medical ones. Barry had been the one to think of household uses. For the first few years the fabric will be expensive due to patent and licensing fees, but there’s nothing inherently pricey in the materials mix: ten years from now, when the patents expire, Barry foresees a whole range of products aimed at middle-market home maintenance.

The downside of this fabric is that, being low-friction, it’s somewhat difficult to handle. It doesn’t outright slip out of anyone’s fingers, but securing it in place requires precisely targeted force, and more than one test is ruined by the discovery that they hadn’t gotten the balance quite right. The results from the successful tests are highly promising, but tempers among the team start running high before long.

“Oh, fuck it all,” Hartley finally snaps, yanking his goggles off his face and throwing them across the room. The test sample is a wisp of brightly colored fabric on the floor of the containment unit, cheerfully ignoring its scientists’ frustration.

Barry’s stomach grumbles. He looks at the clock. It’s after one. “We never had lunch,” he realizes.

“Some of us have work ethic,” Hartley snaps.

“Okay, that’s it,” Cisco says. He grabs Hartley’s arm and starts hauling the other scientist away.

“Let go of me!” Hartley says sullenly. Despite this, Barry notices, Hartley makes no actual attempt to pull out of Cisco’s grasp.

“Nope,” Cisco says. “We had a deal, Hart. You act like a kid and I get to tell you what to do. That’s the deal. And what I say is, we’ll all feel better for some lunch.”

“Damn you.”

“Yep,” Cisco says with gallows cheer. “Caitlin, Barry, you coming?”

“Why not?” Caitlin sighs. She sets her goggles aside and shrugs out of her lab coat. Barry does the same, holding back a curse when it snags on his tie. Seriously. Ties. Ugh. He should stop wearing them. Just because Eobard had bought them is no reason to keep wearing them, and Barry resolves, effective immediately, to stop. In a pod where Cisco wears ratty T-shirts on the regular, Barry’s lack of tie is hardly going to be what calls down the wrath of the STAR Labs dress code.

The four of them troop down to the cafeteria, which, contrary to Eobard’s joke on Barry’s first day, is in fact incredibly nice. Barry loads up a tray with the rest of his pod and they home in on an open table. Hartley and Cisco sit next to each other on one side, as they often do; despite all their bickering, they seem to be fast friends. Barry sits across from them with Caitlin. By unspoken accord, they don’t talk about work. Unfortunately, their attempts to find other topics seem doomed to fail miserably.

“How’s your sister’s wedding coming?” Caitlin asks Barry, in what seems like a desperate attempt to find safer territory, after Cisco’s upcoming birthday and Caitlin’s husband’s new hobby have both run afoul of bad tempers.

Across the table, Hartley tears his roll apart viciously.

“It’s, uh, it’s fine,” Barry says, one eye on his podmate. He’s not the only one: Cisco has _both_ eyes on Hartley, in between giving Barry pleading looks that say _please change the topic_.

“Have they picked a venue yet?” Caitlin asks.

“Yeah – ”

“Which?”

Barry focuses on his soup. “The Maliwan.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful!” Caitlin enthuses. She doesn’t seem to be picking up on Hartley’s resentment or Cisco’s silent pleas. Or maybe she just thinks enthusiasm is the way to overcome the mood that’s settled over the table. “Ronnie and I looked at that! It wasn’t available our weekend, worse luck. But wow, Barry, Iris is so lucky! She’s really having her dream wedding.”

“That must be nice,” Hartley says bitterly, evidently losing the battle to stay silent.

“Hart,” Cisco tries. He’s the only one of their pod who ever has any success pulling Hartley out of one of his funks, but today even his luck has run out. Hartley shakes Cisco’s hand from his arm and continues glaring at Barry, ignoring the way Caitlin has recoiled and Barry is frozen like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming train.

“You don’t even know how lucky your sister is, do you?” Hartley goes on, when Barry doesn’t respond. “She just put down her money and got her husband.”

“That’s how the system works,” Barry snaps, not without bitterness of his own.

Hartley tosses his fork down with a clatter, staring at Barry like he’s an idiot. “No, that’s not how the system works, Mr. Allen,” he says scathingly. “Sure, your sister can pay, but she’s still got _West_ after her name. Most families wouldn’t care how much money she brings to the match. Her blood isn’t blue. That’s what would matter.”

“What? Are you saying that they’d bar the match over _that_?”

“Of course they would. The Thawnes are unusual that way. They’re self-made themselves, you know. Oh, yes, it’s five or six generations back, enough that everyone else has forgotten, but not the Rathaways. We don’t forget. The Thawnes are new money. So’s your sister, now.”

“I don’t think that’s what your family is calling her, is it?” Barry almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, low and seething with anger on Iris’ behalf. “You sit there and call her new money like it’s a slur, but I bet you’re saying worse behind closed doors. Why don’t you just call her a gold-digger to my face, huh? A conniving little piece of trash from a low-class family trying to sleep her way to the top – ”

“Hey!” Cisco cries.

Belatedly Barry registers that Cisco looks hurt. That Caitlin has a hand on Barry’s arm, like she thinks she’s going to have to hold him back. That Hartley’s face has gone blank, all emotion wiped from it like a door slamming shut, and he’s staring at the table.

“That’s not what he thinks,” Cisco says to Barry.

Barry takes a breath. Another. “Then let him say so himself,” Barry says, when he’s sure he’s not going to yell.

Hartley looks up. “That’s not what I think,” he hisses.

“We don’t all get lucky in our families,” Cisco says to Barry, pleading. “Yours have both been good people. Hart’s have a lot of money, but…”

Cisco trails off. Probably having thought better of bad-mouthing the Rathaways to Hartley’s face. But his point has been made. Barry begins to see that he’d been in the wrong. He’d assumed that Hartley’s parents’ views were automatically shared by every member of the Rathaway family. A terribly blueblood way of thinking, that.

The more time Barry spends here at STAR Labs, or with Iris and Eddie, or with Eobard Thawne himself, the more Barry finds his habits shifting. His patterns of thought, what he notices, what he tries to project. Like on that first day at work, when Barry had wondered what people would think of him, walking to lunch at an expensive restaurant in expensive clothes with a STAR Labs badge around his neck. Somehow, insidiously, those thoughts have started to worm their way into Barry’s life. Started to seem more natural. Until Barry finds himself choosing nicer clothes even on the weekends. Or thinking about how the seating chart at Iris’ wedding can be arranged to maximize the forming of new connections. Or assuming Hartley looks down on Iris just on general principle, just because her blood isn’t blue.

“Sorry,” Barry says to Hartley, contrite and ashamed.

Hartley shrugs stiffly. He won’t quite meet Barry’s gaze.

There’s a stir in the cafeteria. Automatically Barry looks around. His first thought is that his pod’s fight has attracted attention beyond their table. But he’s wrong. Everyone’s sitting up and paying attention to the man who’s just entered the room. The founder himself. Eobard Thawne.

Thawne smiles impartially at everyone and returns their greetings with practiced charm, but fends off any attempts to draw him deeper into conversation as he moves deeper into the cafeteria. Barry looks away, focusing back down on his tray. Surely Thawne isn’t here to speak to any of Barry’s pod. He can come up to their lab if he wants to do that; there’s no need to hunt them down in the cafeteria.

Unless they’re not _in_ their lab. Barry may as well have saved his metaphorical breath: barely a moment after he’s looked away, the air around the table changes, altered by Thawne’s unmistakable presence entering its space.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Thawne,” Caitlin says politely. She’s the only one who speaks. Barry is still staring at the table. Hartley and Cisco appear to be having a conversation in significant glances and carefully hidden touches. It forms its own bubble around them that not even Thawne’s presence can disturb.

Thawne isn’t looking at them anyway. He’s looking at Barry.

“Mr. Allen, I regret disturbing you, but an urgent matter has arisen,” he says.

That yanks Barry’s head up fast. “Is it Eddie and Iris?”

“It is… related,” is all Thawne will apparently say in public. “If you’ll come with me, I can give you the details in a more appropriate setting.”

Barry looks at Caitlin. She nods. “Don’t worry about it if you don’t come back,” she says. “We’re just doing tests, it can wait till tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he says to her. Barry glances across at Hartley and Cisco, but they’re still not paying any attention to him.

“I’ll get your tray,” Caitlin prompts.

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” Barry stands up, feeling oddly shaky.

“Then if you’ll come with me, Mr. Allen?” Eobard gestures for Barry to accompany him, for all the world as if they’re at a polite event. As if Barry is Eobard’s guest. The same set of complicated emotions that had made Barry yell at Hartley rises up again, and Barry has to swallow them back down before he can nod and rise.

But swallow them he does. Barry allows Thawne to escort him out, and tries not notice that he no longer feels discomfited by the fact that all eyes are on him as he does.

* * *

Barry had expected that they’d find an empty conference room or something on one of STAR Labs’ many floors, but apparently Eobard has other ideas. He leads Barry straight out of the building and into the luxurious car waiting, engine on and idling, just outside the doors.

“I don’t have my jacket,” Barry says stupidly, even as he slides into the seat across from Eobard. Of course it’s a freaking limo. Barry’s sitting backwards, and there’s a privacy screen behind him that keeps him from seeing the driver.

“We can turn the heat on if you’re cold,” Eobard says, equally inane.

“No. No, I just…” Barry’s keys are in the pocket of his jacket. As is his wallet. But he probably doesn’t need them. “Tell me what’s going on, please.”

“I think it will be better if we wait until we reach Thawne Industries.”

“This isn’t private enough?”

Eobard’s lips quirk in an all-too-brief smile. “Private, yes, but in this case, almost too much so. The situation is still evolving. There may be updates. I would prefer to give you the most complete picture possible.”

Barry’s stomach drops further. “This isn’t just about Iris and Eddie.”

For a long moment Barry thinks Eobard isn’t going to answer. But finally, as they swing into the private lot at Thawne Industries, Eobard says, “No.”

The limo pulls to a stop. A moment later, the driver opens the passenger side door. Eobard urges Barry out with a hand at his back, then exits himself. His hand lingers on Barry’s back. A point of solidity in a rapidly shifting world.

They go inside. The lobby is busy. Just as busy as it had been on that day, months ago, that Barry had come to demand that Eobard allow Iris and Eddie to marry. This time, no one looks twice when they get onto the express elevator. Eobard is Eobard, and Barry – this time, Barry looks like he belongs here.

Sally Gideon is once again behind the desk when they get to the top. She’s on the phone, but when she sees them she says something briefly into the receiver and then hangs up.

“Updated file,” she says, handing Eobard a folder. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

“Thank you, Gideon.”

“Good to see you again, Barry,” Sally says to him. Barry musters a brief smile for her, but the unease roiling in his gut prevents anything more direct in response.

Eobard ushers Barry into his office. Barry sinks down into the chair across from Eobard’s desk. He feels almost numb: he’s waiting for the blow to fall.

“Tell me no one’s dead,” Barry whispers.

“God, no,” Eobard says, startled. Then his eyes widen briefly, which undoes all the good work his reassurances had done.

“Just tell me,” Barry begs.

Eobard sets the file Gideon had given him down and pulls out another. He opens it to the front page and begins flipping through it, speaking as he goes.

His voice is calm and largely controlled. Barry catches himself being lulled by it, by its confident cadences, its imperceptible sense of being on top of everything. Eobard must have practiced speaking like that. How many speeches does he have to give in a year? Stockholders, charity events, STAR Labs galas. Weddings.

Weddings. Barry’s attention jerks back into focus, just as Eobard turns over the picture of Malcolm Cobalt.

“Oh my God,” Barry says blankly.

Eobard explains the rest. Then he sits back and waits for Barry’s reaction.

Barry reaches out and picks up the picture of Malcolm Cobalt with trembling fingers.

“He looks just like me,” he says.

Eobard nods.

“He’s my brother?” Barry almost doesn’t recognize his own voice. It sounds choked. “I have a brother?”

Eobard picks up the second folder and opens it. There are more pictures inside. Pictures of Malcolm as a child, with two adults – “Charlene,” Eobard names them, pointing, “and Hugo.” Barry recognizes Charlene’s eyes. Hugo’s nose. Charlene’s chin. Hugo’s hair. He sees them in the mirror every day.

Family. Barry has _family_.

“Can I meet them?” Barry breathes. “Can I talk to them?”

“Charlene and Hugo have since passed away,” Eobard says, an odd gentle note in his voice that Barry’s never heard before. “Malcolm is head of the family now, and I imagine that, yes, he would very much like to meet you.”

Passed away. Dead, that means. Barry looks at the pictures of them with their son. They’re not that different, in composition, from the pictures of Barry with Nora and Henry. Nora and Henry are dead, too. But Barry is alive. And Malcolm – Barry touches the recent photo of Malcolm again. Stares at the wave of his hair, the cleft of his chin. It could be a picture of Barry.

Family.

“What do you know about the Cobalts?” Barry demands eagerly. “Are they nice? What do they do?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much. They’re residents of Opal City, outside my sphere.” Which means they’re not bluebloods. “The family does not seem to have any one overriding business interest. Individual members follow their skills where they lead. Malcolm Cobalt is a lawyer.”

 _Follow their skills where they lead._ Barry likes the sound of that. It sounds like they’ll understand Barry. Understand his unique situation. He’s been a child of two families already. Now – now, might he be a child of a third?

Or will Barry’s oddity put them off? Will they accept him as he is, Barry Allen, West cadet, orphan turned fosterling turned adoptive son turned – whatever he is now? They’re not bluebloods; Barry is glad of that, glad to know they’re free of that pressure towards family pride, at least. But still –

He wants to ask Eobard. Wants to ask: _will they like me?_ But there’s no way for Eobard to reassure him of that. What Barry would really be asking would be: _do_ you _like me?_ And that’s not a question he’s prepared to ask. Especially not now.

Instead Barry asks, “Did my parents know?” Barry swallows. Corrects himself. “Did – did Nora and Henry know? That I wasn’t their son?”

“It has not yet been proven that you aren’t.”

Barry has to laugh. “That DNA test is going to come back positive, and we both know it.” There’s no other explanation beyond blood for the fact that Malcolm looks as like Barry as the reflection in the mirror.

Eobard nods, accepting this. “It’s not clear who knew what when,” he says. “We are looking into the matter.”

Barry blinks. “Looking into it? Why?”

Eobard taps his fingers on his desk. He seems to be choosing his words carefully. “It is also not clear that the Cobalts are acting for entirely altruistic reasons,” is what he says.

“What? What do you mean?” Barry knows his voice has climbed an octave, know he’s looking at Eobard with shock. He feels like he’s been slapped. Eobard has seen the picture, read the data, the sworn affidavits about the night the Cobalt twins had been born – what does Eobard mean, Barry’s family might not be acting for _entirely altruistic reasons_?

Eobard turns over a few sheets of paper. They cover the picture of Malcolm. The parents with the child who might as well be Barry. He turns the kidnapping report. Past Charlene’s psychiatric records, what little of them are a matter of public record. And turns to –

“The money,” Barry concludes. “You think they’re after the money.”

Eobard has turned to the lien. To the request for formal reassignment. The financial filings.

He thinks Barry’s family only wants him for the _money?_

“It may be a consideration,” is what Eobard says.

Barry shakes his head. “Just because they found out about me through the filing – it doesn’t mean that they’re only after the money.” Can’t Eobard see? “This just happened to be the way they found out!”

“Barry, they are asking for complete control. If they had just wanted to meet you, they could have written you a letter. The legal filings are a worrying step.”

“You’re overreacting. They just wanted to get my attention!”

“By freezing Iris’ dowry-payment?” Eobard shakes his head. “One does not signal good will by threatening your target’s sister’s ability to marry.”

Anger starts to stir in Barry’s gut. He latches on to it gladly, a recognizable emotion in a sea of less easily named ones. “Threatening it, are they? And whose fault is that?” Barry snaps. “ _You’re_ the one who came up with this whole complicated plan, just because you didn’t want to admit this system is bogus and set a dowry-price Iris could afford to pay. Now that it’s blowing up in your face, you’re blaming everyone but yourself!”

“Barry,” Eobard says. He sounds startled, and his mouth is open, like he’s going to say something else. Barry doesn’t give him the chance.

“If these Cobalts are my family, then I want to meet them. I’m sure they’ll be reasonable. I’m an adult, I don’t need anything from them. We’ll get to know each other. We’ll take it slow. You’ve got no right to assume – ” Barry stumbles to a verbal halt, breath hitting hard against his teeth, like he’s been running. Eobard is staring at Barry; Barry stares back. “You should be happy for me,” Barry says, and hates that it sounds plaintive. How many times does Barry have to remind himself to stop caring about Eobard Thawne’s good opinion?

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Finally Thawne speaks.

“Since this matter was brought to our attention through the lien placed against Iris’ and Eddie’s engagement, the Thawne family considers itself to be formally involved. Iris has already agreed to accept Thawne resources, including legal counsel, in resolving this matter. She assures me that her decision is binding on the West family. Which, pending the results of a DNA test, includes you.”

Barry swallows, unaccountably hurt. He hadn’t realized until just now how relaxed, how almost _familiar_ Eobard has been with Barry. Now Thawne is speaking as if Barry is an outsider. Barry doesn’t like it. But he can’t think of anything to do except shake his head in answer to Thawne’s question.

Thawne continues. “Pursuant to your express interest, I will arrange for a video conference with Malcolm Cobalt at his, and your, earliest convenience. A physical meeting can be arranged subsequently if both parties continue to agree. As to the legal filings – do I understand correctly that you do not object to the Cobalt family’s request for a DNA test?”

“I do not object,” Barry whispers.

“We will inform them.” Eobard picks up a pen and writes something down; making a note to himself, Barry assumes. “They have requested immediate alteration of your family status in the event of a positive DNA test. This includes reassignment of all assets you hold in your own name and may include the transfer of assets held in common by the West family that are deemed to be rightfully yours. A judge will rule on that if it becomes necessary. You will need to inform us, within twenty-four hours of a positive DNA test, whether or not you wish to contest their motions.”

“Assets – held in common?” Barry feels like he’s drowning. “They can’t take money from Joe!”

“They can,” Thawne contradicts. He makes another note to himself. “The West family may also have a counter-claim for expenses incurred in the raising of a Cobalt dependent, again pending the results of a DNA test. However, that will not be your concern.”

“Dr. Thawne,” Barry tries. “You’re acting like this is going to be all acrimonious. It doesn’t have to be. Look, you said the Cobalts weren’t bluebloods. Stop judging them by yourself!”

Thawne raises a sardonic eyebrow. “How else am I to judge them?”

“You’ll see,” Barry says. He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince. “I’ll meet Malcolm, I’ll explain everything to him. He’ll understand. He’ll see that I’m my own person.”

“Your own person,” Thawne says tonelessly. He regards Barry with a mixture of wistfulness and pity.

“Yes,” Barry insists.

“I suppose we will both see,” Thawne concludes. He stands. Automatically Barry does the same. “Gideon is the legal lead for this effort. Please direct any correspondence you have on the matter to her.”

“Dr. Thawne – ”

“I’m afraid I have other things which require my attention.”

Barry squeezes his hands together, trying to stop them shaking. “Dr. Thawne, I – ”

“Good day, Mr. Allen.”

The name is like a firecracker in the air. Thawne flinches as soon as he says it. Barry recoils, too. There’s a sudden yawning pit in his stomach and a burning sensation behind his eyes that he recognizes all too well.

“Barry,” Thawne says. There may be regret and apology in his tone. Barry can’t wait to find out. He stumbles towards the door and out of it, not daring to look back at the man he’s leaving behind.

* * *

Sally Gideon, God bless her and all her works, doesn’t pry. She just sits Barry down on a chair until a call from the security desk below tells her that a company car is ready to take Barry home. Then she shepherds him down the elevator and through the lobby, directly into the car. He tries to thank her, but she just waves it off.

“Go home, have a good cry, then get some sleep,” Sally advises kindly. “You’ll see more clearly tomorrow.”

The car isn’t the same one that had brought Barry and Eobard to the Thawne Industries building. It’s more modest, with only one row of seating and no privacy screen between passenger and driver. Barry pulls on his seatbelt with trembling fingers. Then he notices. Draped across the far seat is his jacket.

Barry picks it up numbly. His fingers find keys and wallet in their proper pockets, just as he’d left them this morning. Someone had thought to have it fetched from STAR Labs. Someone had had it placed in this car. Someone had remembered that Barry would need a ride home –

A ride. To the West residence.

 _Home_ , Barry repeats to himself, but it doesn’t work. He’s only barely a West, and apparently he’s no Allen at all.

Half an hour ago, he’d yelled at Eobard Thawne about being happy for Barry. He’d been excited at the prospect of gaining new family. People who might share Barry’s blood, who might embrace him fully as one of their own. Not that Joe and Iris hadn’t tried, but there had always been that extra push of effort. That extra friction that had come with having two different last names. The Cobalt family promises an end to that. They promise a name that Barry can share, a family that will be his, all the way his –

In Eobard Thawne’s office that had seemed a heady thing. Now, coming to a halt just inside the door of the West bungalow, everything Barry stands to lose – including the name Nora and Henry had given him – suddenly overwhelms him.

He starts to cry.

Iris runs in from the living room and gets her arms around Barry, guiding him down onto the couch and rocking him back and forth a little like Nora had used to do. Like Barry’s _mother_ had used to do. Nora and Henry had _raised_ Barry. Had rocked him as a child, put him to sleep, woken up with him, fed him, loved him. Taught him to read. Taken him to school. Attended his recitals. Read him his favorite book a thousand times over.

Who is he if he’s not Barry Allen?

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Iris murmurs uselessly into Barry’s hair. Out of the corner of Barry’s eye, he can see Eddie hovering, wanting to do something but not knowing what. Across from Eddie, Joe is unfolding a blanket. A second later warmth drapes over Barry’s back. He burrows into it, letting it and Iris’ warmth and the presence of Joe and Eddie soothe his frayed nerves.

“Want to talk about it?” Joe offers, when Barry finally stops crying.

“I don’t know,” Barry whispers. He straightens from his curled-up position, giving some relief to his back muscles if nothing else. Eddie half-sits, half-falls on the couch next to Iris. Barry squishes over some to make room. The couch isn’t quite big enough for three fully-grown people, but no one seems inclined to move.

Joe, once more ensconced in the armchair catty-corner to the couch, just nods. He’s probably the one most used to seeing Barry like this. Iris had been a kid, just Barry’s age, when Barry’s parents – when Nora and Henry had died. She’d helped as much as any kid could. But Joe had been the one to take Barry to therapy, to pull him out of fights on the playground, to stay up with him when he had nightmares and couldn’t sleep.

“Do you all know?” Barry sniffles; Eddie hands him a box of tissues. Barry fishes one out and blows his nose. “What Thawne just told me?”

Heads nod around the table. “We just got done telling Joe,” Eddie says. “My cousin told us this morning.”

Before he’d told Barry. Barry considers being offended by that, but it feels meaningless. So Eobard had told them first. So what? So Barry had been wrong to think that Eobard Thawne might have considered Barry something more than an employee – than a pawn in his game to get Eddie and Iris safely married. So Barry had been wrong to think there might have been a warmth in the way Eobard had looked at him, an affection that had gone beyond duty. What does it matter now?

“What are you going to do about it?” Iris asks.

Barry shrugs. The blanket slides off his shoulders, pooling in his lap. “Thawne is arranging a video call with Malcolm,” he says. “I’ll talk to him. Get to know him.”

“Barry…” she starts, then trails off.

Joe says, “You don’t sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Barry confesses, voice small.

“You’re my brother,” Iris says firmly.

Eddie, sitting next to her, presses his lips together. Barry meets his eyes and knows what Eddie isn’t saying. Barry may not be a lawyer, but his parents’ death – Nora’s and Henry’s death – had thrown him into the deep end. He’d versed himself well in adoption law before applying to become a member of the West family. He knows how worthless that adoption is, legally, if he’s really Michael Cobalt.

 _I’m sure they’ll be reasonable,_ Barry tells himself. _They’ll see that all that paperwork they filed isn’t necessary. They just want to get to know me. They’ll see that I’m an adult, and that I’m happy with my life, and that there’s no need for them to mess with it._

Families aren’t supposed to work that way. But as Cisco had said: _we don’t all get lucky in our families._

“Barry,” Eddie says. “You know we’ve got your back.”

This should probably make Barry feel better. It doesn’t.

 _I’m sure they’ll be reasonable,_ Barry repeats to himself.

Somehow it doesn’t sound anywhere near as convincing in his own head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to [joyouslee](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7332529/comments/69050595) for the notion that the Wests would be entitled to counter-claim - more legal drama for your buck, courtesy of awesome commenters! :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS: this chapter includes references to miscarriage, references to suicide, abuse of medical ethics, gaslighting, spousal/domestic abuse, death of an infant, and general all-around toxicity. The ~~aristocrats~~ Cobalts, ladies and gentlemen!

“Who is going to be on the call?” Barry asks nervously. “Just Malcolm, or other – other family members?”

“Just Malcolm, for now,” Sally Gideon says. She sounds perfectly calm as she ushers Barry to a set at the head of an empty conference table. They’re back at the Thawne Industries headquarters building. STAR Labs has similar facilities, but Eobard – Dr. Thawne – is keeping this tightly held. STAR Labs is full of curious scientists who disregard social niceties in the pursuit of knowledge. The TI building is full of people who keep corporate secrets for a living.

Sally moves to a control panel set into the conference table and begins entering commands. A heavy-looking cylindrical object Barry had initially taken for a spotlight spins around and reveals itself to be a camera, training itself unerringly on Barry’s face. The small projector in the center of the table comes to life. The wall-mounted screen now shows Barry, transmitted in real time.

“A word before we begin the call,” Sally says, sitting down next to Barry with a small remote in her hand. “I am not acting solely as your legal representative in this matter; I am acting on behalf of the Thawne and West families as a whole. It’s not too late for us to postpone this conversation and for you to retain independent counsel.”

“I’m fine,” Barry says, throat dry.

“Cobalt may be acting for himself, or he too may have retained independent counsel. Regardless, remember that he’s a lawyer. He will be selecting his words carefully. He may interpret things differently than you do. He may seek to elicit statements that have legal significance. I will intervene if this happens, but in general, you would be wise to watch your speech.”

“He’s my _brother_ ,” Barry says.

Sally shakes her head. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You aren’t his brother until a judge says you’re his brother. If a positive DNA test walked into this room and put itself in front of me, you would _still_ not be his brother. You are legally Barry Allen. Period. Statements like that only give the Cobalts leverage.”

“This isn’t a negotiation!”

“Everything is a negotiation,” she says inflexibly.

Barry can feel his jaw set mulishly. “I appreciate your concern, but – ”

“It is within my authority to terminate this call if I believe you are damaging the Thawne-West families’ position,” Sally says sharply. “Again, I urge you to retain independent counsel.”

“And _I_ said I’m _fine._ ”

Sally mutters something under her breath that Barry refuses to hear. Then she tabs a button on the remote. There’s the gentle beeping that serves as a ringtone, and then the screen –

It still looks like Barry is looking at a broadcast of himself. Except that he hadn’t chosen to wear a blue-and-white checked shirt under a blue blazer today. And he’s sitting in a Thawne Industries conference room, not what appears to be a modest home office.

“Michael?” the not-Barry says, one hand lifting as if he’d reach through the screen.

Sally clears her throat. “Good day, Mr. Cobalt.”

“Good day, Ms. Gideon,” the man in the reflection says. His eyes never leave Barry. “Good day… Michael.”

Sally shifts in her seat, and for the first time, Barry agrees with her. “Please, call me Barry,” he says. “I – it’s my name.”

“Your name is Michael Cobalt,” the other man says intently. “And I have been searching for you for a long time.”

“Mr. Cobalt,” Sally says. “I’m going to ask you to address Mr. Allen by his legal name.”

Cobalt’s gaze shifts to her for the first time. “The law can’t specify what to call someone, Ms. Gideon.”

“Nor can the law compel someone to answer to something, Mr. Cobalt.”

“Look,” Barry breaks in. “I know this has got to be weird for you, Malcolm – it’s weird for me too – but I’m used to being called Barry, and I’d like to go on using that name, at least until…” Barry runs out of steam and shrugs, hoping that the other man will understand. “What’s in a name, right?”

“A good deal.” Malcolm studies Barry for a moment. Then, like a switch flipping, he smiles and relaxes back in his chair. “But! You’ve asked to be called Barry, and naturally it will be my pleasure to oblige you. You are, after all, my dearest brother.”

“Mr. Cobalt – ” Sally begins, sounding angry.

“Lawyers, lawyers,” Malcolm says. “Michael – sorry, Barry – couldn’t we conduct our long-awaited reunion with a little more privacy?”

“I think we’ve got just the right amount of privacy,” Barry says. Unease is beginning to prickle down his spine. He shoves it away, firmly, and dons a smile of his own. “Anyway, forget about all that legal stuff. I want to learn about you. About all of your family.”

“And I want to learn about you,” Malcolm replies. “It must have been terrible for you. I’m so sorry you had to go through all of this.”

“What? No, no,” Barry says, startled. “Nothing was terrible.”

“You were stolen from your family!” Malcolm says earnestly. “Those horrible Allens – ”

“Whoa, hey, knock that off.” Barry tenses up. “I don’t want to hear you say anything bad about my parents.”

“They weren’t your parents, Michael.”

Sally lifts up the remote in a visible threat. “Mr. Cobalt, if you do not cease addressing Mr. Allen by a false name and making unsubstantiated allegations about his legal birth parents, I will terminate this interview.”

“These are the sort of people you’ve been surrounded with?” Malcolm ignores Sally, focusing on Barry, and sighing with mock dismay. “No wonder you’re so ill-mannered. But that’s all right. We’ll soon sort you out.” Malcolm’s smile is slow. Barry’s unease grows. “I understand that you’ve already submitted the DNA sample.”

Barry nods. It had been taken earlier this morning, at STAR Labs. There had initially been some quibble on the Cobalts’ part about that: they had said – not unreasonably, Barry had thought – that a lab owned by Thawne Industries and employing the subject of the test himself offered too many opportunities for tampering. But in the end, Caitlin had drawn the blood in front of several witnesses, including a notary and Hartley Rathaway. _Judge_ Rathaway, who had been assigned the docket, had deemed his nephew’s witness to be perfectly sufficient. Hartley will be running the test, as well, the results of which are due within three business days. The Cobalts hadn’t dared imply that Hartley would be anything but scrupulously honest. At least, not where Judge Rathaway could have heard them.

Barry had thought the whole thing silly. He’d been willing to go to whatever lab the Cobalts had named. He’d been annoyed at Thawne’s insistence that the Cobalts be given no chance to tamper with the process. He’d thought it hypocritical, since the only way to accomplish that essentially gives _Thawne_ the chance to tamper.

Now, as Malcolm smiles, Barry suddenly thinks it’s a very good thing that his podmate is the one running the sample.

“Good,” Malcolm says. “Then this will get sorted out soon. You’ll love Opal City. It’s very beautiful. There are many nice labs here, if you want to continue in science. We have an interest in some of them. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“What?” Barry blinks, startled. “I – Opal City?”

“Where the Cobalts live.” Malcolm’s smile widens, and the mocking glance he gives Sally is pure malice. “ _All_ Cobalts live in Opal City. If there _were to be_ any _new_ Cobalts, naturally they would be expected to join the _rest_ of their family.”

“But – ” Barry’s jaw drops. With an act of will, he forces it closed. “Mr. Cobalt,” he begins.

“Malcolm, please,” the other man says. “ _Alleged_ brothers should be familiar with each other, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Cobalt,” Barry repeats stubbornly. “I have a life in Central City. In fact, I have an employment contract. I have friends. I have – ” Barry swallows the word _family_ at the last minute and substitutes “ – connections. I don’t want – ”

“What a nasty word,” Malcolm muses. “ _Want_. That’s the Allen taint talking, I suppose. I hear they were quite the individualists.” Malcolm pins Barry with a stern look. “I will not tolerate that kind of disobedience in _my_ family. No Cobalt gets their moral code from a pack of filthy kidnappers.”

It takes a long minute for Barry to wrestle himself down from an angry response. At length he says – as he had earlier, but this time deadly quiet – “Do _not_ talk about my parents that way.”

“Michael Cobalt’s parents are Charlene and Hugo,” Malcolm corrects sharply. “You said you wanted to know about them? Let me tell you. Let me tell you what having their baby stolen did to them. Mom? She lost her mind. I barely remember her from when I was young, she spent so much time in and out of institutions. She insisted Michael was alive somewhere. No one else believed her. Dad didn’t believe her. Hell, I didn’t believe her! Do you know what that did to her? I found her with an empty bottle of pills when I was eight, that’s what it did to her.”

“Oh my God,” Barry whispers. _Suicide? She committed suicide?_

“Dad was never the same after that. A few years later his car went off a cliff on the outskirts of town. An accident. At least, that’s what the cops said.”

“I’m – I’m so sorry.” Barry swallows. “I know. A little bit. What that’s like.”

Malcolm is staring at Barry. His face softens. “Yeah. I guess you do.” He swallows. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

“It’s okay,” Barry says automatically. He’s not entirely sure he means it, but…

“So you understand why – if you are Michael – why I can’t let you go.”

Barry’s gaze refocuses. “What exactly do you mean by that?” he says slowly.

“The contract may be a sticking point, but we’ll do what we can. We’ll get you home to Opal City where you belong. You’ll never have to be away from us again, Michael. You’ll finally be with your family.”

Barry’s chest feels tight. He tries and fails to find something to say. Something positive. Something to connect to Malcolm with, to remind Malcolm that this is supposed to be about family, about _relationships –_

The screen goes dark.

“What?” Barry blurts.

Sally sets the remote down on the table in front of her. “I warned him,” she says flatly. Her face is dark. She looks pissed.

“You hung up on him?” Barry cries.

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?”

Sally looks at Barry squarely. “In my experience, when someone shows an inability to follow basic rules, they are either unwilling or unable to be reasoned with. In either case, there was no point in trying further.”

“But – I was trying to have a conversation with him!”

“You were trying. He wasn’t.”

Barry sputters. She’s right, but admitting it feels wrong.

There’s a ringing noise again. The screen shows an incoming call.

“He’s trying to call us back,” Barry says.

“We will not answer.”

“He’s supposed to be my brother,” Barry tries. “I’m – I’m supposed to be giving him a chance.”

“You gave him several. At least three more than you should have, if you ask me.” Sally presses another button on the remote. The incoming call is terminated. The system begins shutting itself down: the camera swings itself back to face the wall, and the projector powers off. “This interview is concluded. I will be making a report to Dr. Thawne, including a full range of legal options for contesting the Cobalt family’s motions.”

“Contesting – ”

“Do you really want to belong to a family headed by a man who called your parents kidnappers to your face?”

Barry squeezes his eyes shut. “Of course not,” he says, “but – ”

“Barry. Why are you making excuses for him?”

He shrugs helplessly, opening his eyes to Sally’s bewildered look. “He’s supposed to be my family.”

“Not everyone gets lucky in their family,” Sally says, more gently now. “Blood doesn’t mean you have someone’s best interests at heart. Blood doesn’t mean you _agree_ with someone about what their best interests are.” She sighs. “I would have thought your friend Hartley would have taught you that.”

“Yeah.” Barry runs a hand over his face, laughing. “So I’m learning.”

“I’ll copy you on my recommendations.” Sally rises. “Do you need a ride? How did you get here?”

“I drove.” Barry’s car had been parked outside his house yesterday morning, despite his having left it at STAR Labs the previous day. “I’m fine. Thanks, Sally.”

Sally gives him another look like she still isn’t sure, but when Barry pushes himself to his feet and makes for the door, she lets him go.

* * *

Back at the West bungalow – Barry had already told his podmates he’d be taking the rest of the day off, unsure how he’d be feeling after the conversation with Malcolm – Barry finds an unexpected guest. Sitting at the table with Eddie and Joe, drinking coffee, is an old work buddy of theirs with whom Barry has a passing familiarity. Ex-detective, now-PI Quentin Lance turns at the sound of Barry entering the bungalow and gives him a nod.

“Here’s the man himself,” Lance says. “Good to see you again, Barry. Wish the circumstances were better.” They shake hands.

“Sit down, Barry,” Joe says, indicating the fourth and only empty chair at the table.

Barry does. The same unease that had bothered him during his call with Malcolm, only barely banished during the car ride home, flares up again immediately. “Why do I suspect I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”

“Because you’re a smart cookie,” Lance says gruffly. “Kid, did you know your dad and Eddie asked me to look into the Cobalt family, and the whole switcheroo they’re alleging?”

“No,” Barry says, shooting a glance at the other two occupants of the table. Eddie has the grace to look slightly ashamed, though he meets Barry’s gaze squarely. Joe has his most infuriatingly paternal face on. The one that says, _I’m the head of this family, and I’m going to do what I think is best._

Looking at it, Barry remembers Malcolm’s face, when he’d said, _I will not tolerate that kind of disobedience in my family._ His stomach turns over. He looks away, back at Quentin Lance.

“What did you find?” Barry asks.

“Coincidences.” Lance shakes his head. “I hate coincidences. They give me hives.”

Barry nods. He’s been around enough detectives to share the notion.

“Coincidence number one. The doctor who delivered you – whichever ‘you’ you actually are. Doctor Hugo Strange.” Lance slaps down a dossier on the table. “Real piece of work. There were suspicions about him even then. Five years later the hammer fell. List of crimes as long as your resume. Most relevantly: prescribing outside accepted medical treatment practices; possession with the intent to distribute; and criminal conspiracy to distribute.”

“He was selling drugs,” Barry translates.

“He was selling his _patients’_ drugs,” Lance clarifies. “He’d write prescriptions in their name – not always necessary – fill them himself, and then sell them on the black market.”

“Then why work at a birthing center?” Eddie asks. “Wouldn’t a cancer ward be better?”

Lance’s face is a study in disgust. “He deliberately targeted nonverbal patients,” he says. “Newborns and infants can’t tell anyone they didn’t get the drugs they were supposed to.”

“I thought you said he wrote _unnecessary_ prescriptions,” Barry says uneasily.

“Mostly. Mostly. But not always. By the time you were born, Barry, Strange had half a dozen malpractice citations against him. Kids weren’t getting their meds. One of them almost died.”

“One of them did die,” Eddie says grimly.

“Yeah.”

“Because they didn’t get the drugs they needed?”

Lance shrugs. “I’m no doctor,” he says bluntly. “I just follow the trail. Three babies went in to Strange’s nursery. Two came out. And then five years later the doctor gets picked up for selling his patients’ meds on the black market instead of giving them to them.” Lance sighed. “Like I said. Coincidences.”

“Why lie about which kid had died?” Eddie says slowly, intent on the case. “If Barry Allen had died, why not just say so?”

“Strange was already skating on thin ice with his malpractice claims. An actual death would have been more than enough to get his license yanked – maybe enough to unravel the whole house of cards. Forget malpractice; he could have done time for manslaughter. He had to cover that up.”

“But he did have to admit someone died,” Eddie says. “What’s the difference between Michael Cobalt and Barry Allen?”

“Whether or not their families were going to kick up a fuss.” Lance tugs a small stack of paper out of his messenger bag and spins it across the table at Eddie.

“What’s that?” Barry asks.

“Financial statements.” Eddie is skimming them quickly, Joe craning his neck to look over Eddie’s shoulder. Barry doesn’t try to look himself. Eddie and Joe know what they’re doing.

And Eddie is nodding in grim realization. “They were broke,” he summarizes for Barry’s benefit. “The Cobalts. Charlene needed fertility treatments. They were expensive. The family were struggling to make their mortgage. Then all of a sudden they were flush.”

“Right after Michael died,” Barry guesses dully.

“Yep.”

“Strange paid them off,” Joe says. Anger colors his tone. “Paid them to take their son and give him to Nora Allen, and not make a fuss about it.”

“Or Strange tried.” Eddie taps his fingers against the table thoughtfully. “Charlene refused to identify the dead child as Michael.”

“Coincidence the second,” Lance says. He produces a second set of papers. Charlene’s psychiatric records. Somewhat less redacted than the public copy Eobard had been able to obtain. This version includes the name of the doctor who had involuntarily committed Charlene.

“Why am I not surprised,” Joe says in disgust. “Dr. Hugo Strange.”

“Here’s the list of prescriptions Strange wrote in _her_ name.” Lance produces it. “Somehow I’m guessing none of _these_ ended up on the black market.”

Barry takes the sheet, wishing Caitlin were here. “Haldol, seraquel – lorazepam?”

“I had an EMT buddy of mine check this list out. This isn’t a regimen designed to help someone get better. This is designed to keep someone from knowing which way is up.”

“No wonder Charlene overdosed eventually,” Eddie says. “She wasn’t in on the scam.”

“Was Nora?”

Silence falls over the table. Three pairs of eyes focus on Barry.

Barry repeats himself. “Was Nora in on the scam? Did – did she buy me to replace her real son?”

“I don’t know,” Lance says, in what is, for him, a gentle tone.

“How do you not know?” That’s a little unfair of Barry, but – “Can’t you look at their financial records? If they paid – ”

“Unfortunately not,” Lance says. “Their accounts were all closed after their death, when their assets were all combined into your trust, Barry. The bank didn’t keep records past the five year expiration required by law. I was lucky to get the Cobalts’ records – they still have the same accounts they had in 1991, so their bank kept everything.”

“So there’s no way to know.” No way to know if Nora and Henry had really believed Barry had been their son, or if that, too, had been a lie. The smiles, the lullabies, the soccer games and science fairs – had any of it been real? Or had Barry always been something to be bought and paid for?

But the alternative – had the Allens been victims, too, just like Michael Cobalt and the real Barry? Had _that_ been the lie? When they’d looked at Barry with love, kissed his forehead and read him to sleep and encouraged him with his homework – had their real son been lying in the ground all the while, dead and buried under an assumed name without his parents ever knowing?

“I’ll keep looking,” Lance says. “This – ” he waves his hands at the financial statements, at Charlene’s psychiatric records, at Strange’s rap sheet – “this is all suggestive, but not definitive of any wrongdoing on anyone still alive today. Dr. Strange ended up on the wrong end of a gang fight in prison shortly after his arraignment. Charlene swallowed a bottle of pills.”

“And Hugo Cobalt?” Barry swallows. “Malcolm said he drove his car off a cliff.”

“Yeah. Police ruled it an accident – it was foggy that night, and the part of the road where Cobalt went off didn’t have guardrails – but it could just as easily have been suicide. Maybe the guilt of selling off his kid finally caught up to him.”

“Or the guilt of driving his wife to OD,” Joe mutters.

“Or it really was an accident,” Eddie concludes. “No way to know at this point. Not without a lucky break in the case.”

Lance shrugs. “I’ll keep looking,” he repeats.

“Thank you, Quentin,” Joe says seriously.

“Hey, you’re paying,” Lance says. But he’s grinning when he says it. “It’s nice to do a good turn once in a while. Mostly I track cheating spouses.”

Eddie gives the obligatory chuckle. Barry doesn’t join in. He doesn’t feel much like laughing.

“I did find one other thing,” Lance adds.

“What?” Joe asks.

Lance reaches back into his messenger bag and pulls out a thin book bound in blue cloth. “I can’t tell you how I got this,” he says, “so it’s no good to you as evidence. But I think you’ll want to know what it says all the same.”

Barry takes the book after a quick glance at Joe and Eddie. They’re both looking relatively grim.

He flips open the front page. It’s blank. He turns to the next one. It’s lined, and filled in with a thin, graceful handwriting. There’s a date at the top: _March 5, 1989._ Two years before Barry had been born.

“What am I looking at?” Barry asks. Quietly. He suspects he already knows.

“Charlene Cobalt’s diary,” Lance says, confirming Barry’s suspicions.

“Have you read it?”

Lance nods.

Barry swallows. The unease in his gut has stopped roiling, congealing into a stone that sits heavily.

“I think I’ll take this upstairs,” he says.

“You go ahead, Bar,” Joe says gently. “We’ll be down here if you want to talk when you’re done.”

* * *

Barry closes the door to his room slowly. He takes the diary over to his bed and gets comfortable on top of the worn blue bedspread. There’s a moment when he just stares at the cover of the diary, trying to get up the courage to read it.

He could not. He could put it away. He could accept the results of the DNA test, whatever they are, and go back to whichever family is really his. He doesn’t need to burden himself with this knowledge.

Except –

 _Charlene was a victim too,_ Barry tells himself. _She deserves to have her voice heard._

He opens the diary.

> _March 5, 1989_
> 
> _I got the go-ahead from the doctor today. I never would have dreamed it would take us so long to get here, but as of today, we are officially starting to try for a child!_
> 
> _Hugo is over the moon. He’s been so disappointed that we’ve had to wait this long. I have been, too, but – well, I guess it’s different when you’re head of a family. And it’s not like he made a secret out of the fact he wanted children when he married me._
> 
> _I’ve never kept a diary before, but Hugo gave me this book. He thought our future children might like reading about how they came to be. I’ll give it a try, anyway. Might be fun!_

> *

> _April 9, 1989_
> 
> _I had no idea the procedure was going to be so draining. Hugo wants me to write everything down, but I don’t think our future children are going to want to hear about all the gory details. Let’s just say I hope I don’t have to do this too many times!_

There follows a few months of entries that have the feel of duty about them: Charlene noting down the dates she’d gone to the clinic, the negative tests, the gearing up for another round. Then, in mid-July, a single jubilant scrawl: _We did it!_ Charlene writes. _We’re pregnant!_

Barry smiles, caught by the enthusiasm still radiating out of the text, even all these years later. But – the date catches his eye. July is about right, but the year still says _1989._

That’s too soon, Barry thinks. Malcolm hadn’t mentioned a sibling a year older than himself. Something tightens in Barry’s chest. He pages forward, and –

> _October 25, 1989_
> 
> _We’re not pregnant anymore._

Barry lets out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding. _Oh,_ he thinks sadly. _I’m so sorry._

There are no entries for a few months after that. The diary picks up next in December. Charlene’s handwriting has grown spikier. Barry doesn’t know what to make of that.

> _December 1, 1989_
> 
> _The bills are piling up. Hugo snapped at me the other day. Sure, I know couples fight, but he’s never raised his voice to me before._
> 
> _The fertility treatments are really expensive. I hope our future children know how much Hugo and I wanted them. No one goes through all of this unless they really want children._

Barry swallows. _You wanted me,_ he thinks to the mother he’d never known. He smooths down the pages of Charlene’s diary, noticing without really paying attention to it that his hand is trembling faintly. _Thank you for that._

> _February 8, 1990_
> 
> _Hugo’s niece had to drop out of college. There isn’t any money for tuition anymore. I told him, maybe we should take a break from the IVF. Let Bianca finish her degree. Then, when she gets a job, there will be more money coming in! Hugo didn’t listen. He said Bianca can finish_ after _he’s gotten his heir. In the meanwhile, Big Belly Burger pays, too._
> 
> _I don’t understand. Bianca’s his blood, too. I’m not saying we should give up, but if it’s just about an heir, there are other options! Bianca’s smart. She was studying financial management. She’d do well. Or if Hugo wants someone younger, his sister just had her first child. Hugo doesn’t have to have a child to have an heir._
> 
> _It feels so selfish, the way Hugo is telling everyone else they have to put their lives on hold just so I can go another round at the clinic…_

Barry starts turning the pages more quickly. He skims past entries about Bianca’s job, Hugo’s sister’s child, Hugo’s increasing determination. Charlene seems to have forgotten that this diary had been supposed to be for her future children: she writes frankly about their financial troubles and their fights.

 _I don’t recognize Hugo any more,_ she writes despairingly in April of 1990. _This is not the man I married. I wish there were a way for me to go home._

Then:

> _July 1, 1990_
> 
> _The pregnancy test came back positive again. I – oh God. It had better be real this time. If it’s not, I don’t know what I’ll do._
> 
> _I don’t know what Hugo will do, either._

Barry clutches the book so hard the pages wrinkle as Charlene writes about her pregnancy. Having successfully conceived doesn’t seem to have calmed Hugo: if anything, Charlene writes, it drives the head of the Cobalt family into an even greater frenzy. The bills for IVF may have stopped but Charlene’s pregnancy is high-risk from the beginning, and complicated, too, by the fact that she’s conceived twins. The family’s financial situation worsens. Charlene and Hugo’s marriage deteriorates.

And then comes the entry Barry has been both anticipating and dreading. The first entry after the birth of Charlene’s twins.

> _March 17, 1991_
> 
> _My boys were born today. We named the older one Malcolm, after his grandfather, and the younger one is Michael. For the biblical figure. They are both my angels. They are worth everything I had to do to get them._
> 
> _I haven’t gotten to see them much. They were both so small. I know twins are supposed to be small, but – Dr. Strange is worried about their lungs. The nurses are giving them steroids. I get to see them every morning and every night. I can tell them apart already. They’re each more perfect than the other._
> 
> _I can’t wait to take them home._

Barry wipes his face with shaking hands. He’s crying, of course he’s crying. There are rough parts of the page that crinkle when Barry touches them. He imagines his birth mother crying, too, as she’d written these entries.

He reads the entry where Charlene writes that she’s been told Michael has died.

He reads the entry after that.

> _The nurses took me into a room and told me I had to identify him. I didn’t want to. I wanted to tell them to ask Hugo to do it instead. They wanted the mother. Part of me wishes I’d insisted. Part of me hates that I can even have that thought._
> 
> _There was a small white sheet about the size of a hand-towel covering that poor little boy. Whoever he is, I hope he didn’t suffer. He didn’t look like he’d suffered. But he also didn’t look like Michael._
> 
> _I told the nurses that. They looked at each other. I thought they looked grim, but Hugo says that’s just because I’m in denial. But I remember – one of them said something to the other, something that sounded like – I asked her what she’d said, but she didn’t answer._
> 
> _They got Hugo after all. He told them it was Michael. I told him it wasn’t, I was positive, but he said I was wrong. That all newborns look the same. I told him I knew my babies, I told him – but he said I was sick. That Michael’s death had unhinged my mind._
> 
> _…maybe he’s right._

The entries get more rambling after that. Charlene writes that Dr. Strange had prescribed pills, but that she didn’t like to take them. _They make me woozy,_ she writes. _Yesterday I closed my eyes after eating breakfast and when I opened them an hour had passed. What if I had been holding Malcolm? How will I care for Malcolm when we get to bring him home? I don’t think they’re good for me, but Hugo insists._

Barry turns the page.

> _I got to a phone today and I called the police. I told them I didn’t think the baby was Michael. I told them I wanted to file a police report. For kidnapping._
> 
> _They came to the hospital and said they’d file the paperwork. First they insisted I take a second look. I was scared to, but I did, and I – I’m glad I did, because I was right, I was, I don’t know who that boy is but it isn’t Michael. Michael is out there somewhere. Hold on, baby. I’ll find you. I’m coming._
> 
> _I love you._

The entry ends halfway down a page. The rest of the page is blank.

So is the page after that. And the page after that. Barry riffles through the rest of the book, increasingly frantic. There’s nothing more.

He turns back to that last entry again.

 _Hold on, baby_ , she’d written. _I’ll find you._

Charlene had died before fulfilling that promise. Suicide, the police report had said. An overdose of pills. A grieving woman who’d given up on life.

Barry rereads the diary’s last words again. The defiance in them. The will. Unbending, unbroken.

He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath.

He has to talk to his brother again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to maracles for helping me find the right drugs to put Charlene on! It takes a village :)


	9. Chapter 9

Barry walks across the lobby at Thawne Industries, trying to look like he has every right to be here. His STAR Labs badge gets him in without needing to detour to the security desk and explain that he’s on the standing list. If he even still is on the standing list. If Eobard hasn’t taken Barry off after Barry had started showing himself ungrateful and unwilling to grasp the realities of the world.

It’s early. Very early. Barry had tried to get some sleep after reading the diary, cognizant of the time difference between Central City and Opal City and the improbability of being able to reach Malcolm at that time of night. Joe’s earlier offer to talk had held no appeal. Barry can’t talk to anyone about this until he knows – well – until he knows what there is to know.

The day employees haven’t arrived yet. Of course, Thawne Industries has business endeavors across the globe. There are still a healthy number of people milling about. Barry is one of them, anonymous and unremarked. Scientists are known for their odd hours, after all.

He presses the button Sally Gideon had pressed yesterday morning, and steps into the elevator with two other people. Neither of them get off with Barry.

The conference room door unlocks with a gentle snick when Barry gets close enough for his badge to register. Barry breathes a sigh of relief. His badge is good enough for general access to Thawne Industries, but he’d been afraid that beyond the front door, the TI building would be like STAR Labs, where individual lab access is restricted. Apparently conference rooms don’t qualify for protected access. For which he is very grateful, as he slips in and closes the door behind him, setting the lock to _do not disturb._

Barry’s never used a videoconference system like this one, but it’s not hard to figure out. He’d been betting that it would be designed like any other modern phone. And he’d been right. The screen lights up at his touch, offering the usual menus: recent calls, missed calls, phone directory. Barry scrolls through. There. An outgoing phone call from yesterday morning, to an Opal City exchange, that had lasted for fourteen minutes and twenty-three seconds. An incoming call from that same number shortly after, rejected by the receiver.

Barry taps on the number and orders the system to redial.

The gentle tone that passes for a ring sounds awfully loud in the small room. This floor had been mostly empty when Barry had gotten off the elevator, but Barry still glances around nervously. He goes over to the blinds and closes them, just to be safe.

After ten rings, the system tips over to an automatic disconnection. Barry swears and tries again. His palms are sweating. Had he been wrong? Is this not Malcolm’s personal number? It had looked like a home office behind Malcolm, but –

The call connects. Once again Barry is looking at the face like a mirror image of his own.

“Michael!” Malcolm looks thrilled. He also looks satisfied. “I knew you’d reach back out. Thawne can send all the lawyers he wants; blood calls to blood.”

Barry shakes his head impatiently. “Don’t even start with that bullshit,” he snaps. “That’s not why I called.”

Malcolm raises an eyebrow, visibly intrigued. Barry hates that Malcolm is so easy for Barry to read. Malcolm probably has quite a decent poker face, to others; but to Barry, every twitch of a muscle speaks volumes.

“All right, Michael,” Malcolm says. “Why did you call?”

“Don’t call me – ” Barry stops himself; this is a distraction. “I called you to talk about Charlene.”

“Ah.” Malcolm nods gravely. “Of course. You want to know about your mother.”

“You told me that no one believed Charlene when she said Michael was still alive. You said she bounced between institutions most of your life.”

“Yes, it’s a sad story.”

“You didn’t tell me she was involuntarily committed.”

“Michael, Michael.” Malcolm pastes a look of sadness on his face. Its obvious falsity makes Barry sick. “She wasn’t listening to reason. I was just a child, of course, it wasn’t my decision, but father explained everything to me. Mom was losing touch with reality. It was for her own good.”

“They gave her pills,” Barry says. “She didn’t want to take them. It sounded like maybe Hugo was putting them in her food.”

Malcolm shrugs. “He may have been,” he says carelessly.

Barry grips the table. “The day she overdosed – ”

“It was terrible.” Malcolm now looks shocked and grave. “She’d been making crazy statements for a while. Father was losing patience. I begged her to stop. I told her Father’s patience wasn’t endless. But she didn’t listen.”

“You – wait, you mean you thought Hugo – ” Barry’s stomach drops. “This morning you told me you came home one day and found her already dead.”

Malcolm’s eyes widen with faux innocence. “You understand I didn’t want to speak of anything so personal outside the family, Michael. You had that horrible lawyer with you this morning.”

Barry swallows. “But you didn’t tell this to the police either.”

“They weren’t family either. Some things are kept inside the family. You’ll understand once you’re properly home where you belong.”

“And Hugo?”

Malcolm shrugs. “What about him?”

“You told me he drove his car off a cliff.”

Malcolm smiles slowly. “Now, is that what I told you?”

Barry stares at him. Then he replays the conversation from this morning in his mind.

“No,” Barry says slowly. “You told me that his car _went off_ the cliff.”

“I make it a habit not to lie in front of lawyers,” Malcolm says. “Naturally you will be required to do the same.”

“So one day you came home and you found Charlene’s body – ”

“With an empty bottle of pills next to her, and Hugo looking very sad. Truly, it was a masterful performance on his part.” Something ugly flashes across Malcolm’s face. “He deserved to go over that cliff.”

Barry grips the table hard to hide how his hands are trembling. The picture of the Cobalt family is spinning in Barry’s head, the pieces turning to fall into a new pattern, a much better-fitting patterns, sealed up around the edges and horribly clear.

Three babies born. One dying. Each family taking home one. Money changing hands. Charlene hadn’t been in on it. She’d insisted that the baby she’d shown hadn’t been Michael. So Hugo had had her committed. That had worked, for a while. Charlene had told police that the body had been Michael’s after all. But she’d fought the conditioning. Her record shows as much; she’d been in and out of mental institutions – every time she’d started pushing, Barry guesses, Hugo had had her recommitted. And that had worked, for a time. What had changed?

Strange. He’d been busted on drug charges. Without Strange to write prescriptions and sign commitment papers, Hugo Cobalt’s hold on Charlene may well have deteriorated. Malcolm had said she’d been making ‘crazy statements’. So Hugo had taken care of the problem once and for all.

He’d done it quietly. Discreetly. No one had questioned the grieving mother finally snapping under the strain. They hadn’t read her diary. They hadn’t seen the steel that had been at Charlene’s core. Barry has read it. Barry had known. Charlene would never have given up.

Hugo would have known that, too. Hence the ‘overdose’.

And Malcolm had known. Barry nods slowly, feeling his way into the other man’s mind. It’s disturbingly easy. Malcolm had come home, seen the body, seen the pills, seen his father’s face, and he’d known. He’d sworn to do something about it. But first he’d waited. He’d waited _years_ , for the scrutiny to die down. Then he’d killed Hugo himself, put Hugo behind the wheel of that car, and pushed it over the cliff.

And Barry can prove none of it. Malcolm’s words have been carefully chosen to remain noncommittal and ambiguous. Sally had been right to remind Barry, earlier: _remember that he’s a lawyer._

Malcolm can read Barry as easily as Barry can read him. Malcolm smiles. “I see you understand the position,” he says with satisfaction. “Don’t fret so, Michael. I know you would have liked to meet Mom, but take my word for it, you’re better off without Father. I mean, ask yourself: what kind of man would sell off his younger son for cash, just to cover up the mistakes of a druggie doctor?”

Barry looks up sharply. “Are you telling me that Nora didn’t know?”

Malcolm _tsk_ s. “I’m telling you nothing. Do keep up, Michael.”

“If you were to be telling me something,” Barry persists. “Would you be telling me that the Allens had had no knowledge of the swap?”

Malcolm glares at Barry, like Barry is being unreasonable for even asking. Barry holds Malcolm’s gaze, determined. _Come on,_ he thinks, trying to urge Malcolm to answer. _What harm does it do you to answer? It’s all hypothetical._

“Hell if I know,” Malcolm says at last. “But there’s no reason the Allens would have had to have known for the scheme to work. Hypothetically.”

Barry lets out a breath. It’s not the emphatic denial he would have preferred, but maybe it’s better. Barry’s not sure he would have believed a denial. Ignorance – and the cogent point that the scheme, as presented, does not require the Allens’ complicity – may be the best Barry will ever be able to do, all these years later, with all of the players dead and gone.

“I’m glad we’re talking like this, Michael,” Malcolm is saying. “It warms my heart to think that soon we’ll be reunited, just like Mom always wanted.”

_Hold on, baby. I’ll find you. I’m coming._

_I love you._

And on the pages, the unmistakable stains left by teardrops…

Barry wavers. This is what Charlene would have wanted. Both of her sons together again. He looks down, at the diary he’s still clutching in his hands. The last record of a woman who’d fought as hard as she could for justice. Doesn’t she get a say, too?

“The family hasn’t been right without you, Michael,” Malcolm says softly. Persuasively. “You were always meant to be ours. You’ll like Opal City. We’ll break you of all of that nonsense you’ve got going on, and you’ll be happy again.”

Barry lifts his eyes slowly and fixes them on Malcolm. Suddenly he feels completely calm.

Justice.

All the players of that fateful night are dead, Barry had thought moments ago. Yes, they’re dead. But some of their pawns are still alive. Three babies had gone in to Hugo Strange’s nursery. Two had come out. Barry stares at his living mirror across the video conference feed and wonders if his twin has ever spared a thought for the third baby, dead of Dr. Strange’s greed twenty-five years ago. For Nora and Henry Allen, who had lost their only son and probably never even known it.

For Charlene Cobalt. Malcolm may have avenged her, but nothing in his own account says he’d ever tried to help her while she’d lived. An eight-year-old child couldn’t have done much, perhaps. But he could have tried. Instead Malcolm had killed his father and pushed the man off a cliff. None of that is justice.

Malcolm’s face tightens, as if he can sense, somehow, what Barry is thinking. “Don’t get defiant with me, Michael. You won’t like the results.”

Barry nods slowly. “Like Hugo didn’t like the results.”

He sees it now. This is the difference between them. He and Malcolm may share a face – they almost certainly share genes – but Barry would bet anything anyone cared to name that Malcolm has never shed a tear over any of the victims of that night.

Charlene had. The evidence of those tears is preserved in her diary. She’d ended up a victim herself, but she’d cared about the dead child first.

“There’s so much more you don’t know.” Malcolm’s smile is visibly insincere. “But you’ll have the chance to learn, once you’re a member of my family.”

“You mean, once I can’t legally testify against you.” The realization is sharp and sour on Barry’s tongue.

Malcolm’s smile becomes a trifle more genuine. “I see you did get some of the family brains.”

 _This was a mistake_ , Barry sees, abruptly and definitely. Charlene would have wanted Malcolm and Michael to be reunited, yes. But not like this. She wouldn’t recognize this Malcolm, any more than she’d recognized the dead boy twenty-five years ago.

He remembers Henry telling him to run, the night the Allens had died. Charlene would say the same now, if she were alive to do it.

Barry briefly thinks of saying something else to his twin. Thinks of saying goodbye, if nothing else. He doesn’t. He just reaches over to the control panel and taps the red _end call_ icon.

Sally had been right. She had been right all along. As had Eobard, and Joe, and Eddie.

The strange calm still has Barry in its grip. He turns the videoconference system off, but continues to sit in the quiet conference room, considering his options.

The DNA test is due to the court system by the end of the day, the day after tomorrow. At that point there will be wheels in motion that it will be very hard to stop. Assuming the test is positive – and Barry entertains no delusions of its being otherwise – the judge will have very little option but to declare Barry a Cobalt. There may be some dickering over terms. What West assets should go with Barry; how to handle Barry’s employment contract with STAR Labs, when Malcolm demands that Barry relocate to Opal City. But that will just be fodder for the lawyers. Barry’s familial assignment will rest on the DNA test.

And that makes Barry’s path very clear.

He checks his watch. It’s early, but not _that_ early. Hartley is an early riser anyway. He’ll be at STAR Labs. If not now, then soon.

Barry tidies up the remaining traces of his presence in the conference room. Then he turns out the lights and heads for STAR Labs.

* * *

Barry gets off the elevator at his floor and stops dead three steps into his pod’s shared workspace. Caitlin is sitting at her usual desk, but she’s not working. She’s staring blankly off into space. And she’s the only one here. Hartley’s and Cisco’s labs are both dark. The first thing each of them do when they get in is open their individual labs. The lights being off and the doors being locked indicate that neither of Barry’s other podmates have even set foot in the office today.

Barry takes the last step into the shared workspace, which lets the door to his pod’s area slide closed behind him, and tries to pitch his voice for gentleness. “Caitlin? What’s wrong?”

Caitlin jumps, like she hadn’t even heard him come in. She spins hastily in her chair and says, “Barry!”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Barry says, still careful. He grabs the nearest chair – it happens to be Cisco’s – and pulls it up next to Caitlin. “Is – is everything okay?”

“I guess that depends on your definition of okay,” Caitlin says. Now that Barry can see her face more clearly, he can see that she’s definitely shaken, but it’s like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “It’s – I think I’m more upset than Hartley is, right now – it hasn’t hit him yet, I don’t think. It will later. Or maybe it won’t. They never got along, and now that they’re gone – ”

“Caitlin,” Barry says patiently. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Hartley’s parents,” Caitlin says. “They’re dead.”

Barry – he’d never known Hartley’s parents, beyond a brief glimpse of them at the first STAR Labs gala he’d attended. He’d known them only by reputation. Which, in Barry’s case, means that he’d known them by what Hartley – and, to a lesser extent, Eobard – had had to say about them. But Barry remembers being nine years old. Remembers coming downstairs to the sound of screaming and his father telling him to _run, Barry, run as far away as you can_. He remembers the police finding him on the street corner later, crying. He remembers the white sheets over the still forms of his family. There had been one in almost every room of the house, like a macabre treasure hunt. Even in Barry’s room, where he’d tried to retreat, overcome. His two little cousins had been in their sleeping bags on the floor that night. Their sheets had been the same size as the adults’, Barry remembers. But the lumps they made under them had been much smaller.

“Oh my God,” Caitlin says immediately, reaching out and hugging Barry. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot – I was too busy thinking about myself – ” She hugs Barry tighter and awkwardly pats at his back. The whole position is awkward, leaning over the swivel stools that they use in the common area. The stools are small and maneuverable and allow them to zoom from one workstation to another quickly. They’re not built to hug on.

Barry thinks briefly of being ashamed, but gives it up as a waste of effort. It’s been years since Barry had lived with his grief as a second skin casting its shadow over every move he makes. But though he’s learned to seal off the well of anguish, learned to live his life around it, that hasn’t made it go away. Sometimes a hole gets punched in the levy and the emotions just pour through. Right now, with Malcolm Cobalt and a DNA test hanging over Barry’s head like the sword of Damocles, Barry’s walls are particularly thin.

Caitlin continues to awkwardly pat and apologize to Barry. Barry finally stops her, putting his hands on her arms and straightening into something less likely to hurt his back or hers.

“I’m really sorry,” Caitlin says again. “I was thinking of myself, and I forgot how you might take it.”

“I thought your parents were alive?”

It’s a somewhat transparent deflection, but it works. Caitlin shakes her head. “Only my mother. Trust me, she’s enough.” The twist of Caitlin’s lips is equal parts rueful and sad. “She and I never saw eye to eye. Like Hartley and his parents. The difference is, Mom’s not the head of family. Elsa is, and she backed me when I told her I wanted to marry Ronnie. Mom never forgave me. Or Elsa, for that matter.”

Barry nods. Then he asks, “How did they die?”

“Hartley’s parents?” Barry nods again. “Their plane crashed. Their personal plane, I mean. They had been in Metropolis, I don’t know why, and on the way back their plane… I mean, no one knows why yet. There will be an investigation, I guess. But they found the wreckage late last night. Or early this morning, I guess.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah.” Caitlin sighs. “There will be a big funeral in a couple of days. You’ll probably be invited.”

“What? Me? Why?”

Caitlin look at Barry. Says, slowly, “Hartley’s parents are dead. He’s head of his family, now.”

“Oh.” Which means Hartley will be putting the invites together. Which means, yes, Hartley will probably invite Barry and Cisco and Caitlin.

Something else occurs to Barry. Hartley’s parents are dead. Hartley is bereaved. That’s not just a turn of phrase; it’s a legal standing. Barry remembers, from when his family had died. Any obligations Hartley is under are automatically suspended for seven days. No matter what clauses there might be in any contracts Hartley or any other Rathaway have signed or agreed to, they can’t be enforced until the mourning period is over. Legally, it’s like those days simply don’t exist.

Hartley had been going to run Barry’s DNA sample against the corresponding sample provided by Malcolm Cobalt. If Hartley hasn’t finished it yet, he won’t have to. Not until after he’s buried his parents.

Ordinarily the judge would simply order another test be done. But Judge _Rathaway_ will be doing no such thing. He’ll be bereaved, too, just like Hartley. And such a low-priority case like this won’t be assigned to another judge. Not when Judge Rathaway will be back in such a short amount of time. It will just… sit.

“Caitlin,” Barry says urgently. “Do you know if – ”

Caitlin is already shaking her head. “Hartley didn’t run the test,” she says, like she’d known Barry would ask. Perhaps she had. “He told Cisco and I in private that he wasn’t going to run it until the absolute last minute. He didn’t like what the Cobalts were doing any more than Dr. Thawne did.”

The last minute would have been tomorrow. Barry has a breathing space. A short one, but maybe a long enough one to find a miracle.

 _Thank you, Hartley,_ Barry thinks, heartfelt. _And thank you, blueblood paranoia._ Hartley had learned the details of the case from his uncle the judge, and he hadn’t made any bones about the fact that he’d deeply distrusted the Cobalts’ motives from the start. Barry hadn’t listened to Hartley any more than he’d listened to Eobard. But Barry is apparently luckier in his friends than he deserves.

“Any bright ideas for getting out of it?” Caitlin asks.

Barry’s eyes slide past her, to the door to Hartley’s lab. To the equipment sitting dormant within. Somewhere inside there – no doubt in the refrigerated unit – rests the sample Hartley had taken from Barry. It will be carefully sealed against tampering. Hartley will no doubt have to sign an affidavit to attest that the seals haven’t been broken, the contents tampered with. His uncle the judge will certainly accept that affidavit without any further question.

Part of Barry is shocked that he can even contemplate such a thing. But more of him remembers Malcolm’s slow malicious smile. More of him remembers Charlene’s diary.

Besides. Hartley won’t be back for a week. Barry still has time to think of another solution. That in mind, Barry pastes an encouraging smile on his face.

“Nothing yet,” he says, “but I’m working on it.”

* * *

The Rathaways’ funeral is practically a state affair. The mayor gives an address. There are rows after rows of mourners, all dressed to the nines. Among them Barry sees many of the faces he’d first seen at the STAR Labs gala. Just over a week ago – had it been that little?

Iris and Eddie come too. Hartley hadn’t just invited Barry. Apparently that’s not how bluebloods work. Hartley had invited the entire West _family_. Just because he’s friends with Barry. The Thawnes had received a group invitation likewise. Eddie is technically covered under that invitation, but he sits with Barry and Iris, as befits his status in transition to the West family.

Caitlin is across the church, with a group of tall, sharp-featured people who must be other Snows. She catches Barry’s eye and they exchange nods, but don’t have a chance to speak.

Cisco is right at Hartley’s side. When Barry sees Cisco, it hits home suddenly how relaxed Cisco always has been at STAR Labs, with his Star Trek T-shirts and his ratty jeans and his lab coats that he wears with the same unselfconscious confidence that Hartley wears his suits and ties. All of that is gone now. Cisco’s wearing a sharply cut black wool overcoat over a classically tailored suit. His hair is tied back. He’s wearing leather gloves, but when he tugs them off inside the church, the wide platinum band on his left hand glints in the lights. Cisco holds Hartley’s hand while the eulogies are said, and the look on his face never wavers. He looks like a man ready and determined to fight all comers.

There’s no hostile head of family to object to Cisco’s surname now. Hartley can put down his money and gain his husband. As Iris had. Barry doubts they’re actually married yet – blueblood weddings take time, as Iris and Eddie are teaching him – but the platinum band is a message. So is the way Hartley glares at any member of his family who dares to look at Cisco askance.

Barry wishes them well. He wishes he could help. He wishes that, every time he catches his reflection out of the corners of his eye, in the mirrored walls of the funeral home later that day, he didn’t think he were seeing Malcolm Cobalt.

Hartley’s parents’ funeral haunts Barry for the rest of that day and into the next. Their pod is basically on an extended pause; Hartley is bereaved, of course, and now that their engagement’s been publically filed, so is Cisco. Barry is trying to use the unexpected gift of time to find a way out of Malcolm Cobalt’s clutches. Caitlin lets him, occupying herself with a small private experiment she’s been running in her spare time and sneaking off more than usual to see Ronnie.

Every time Barry looks at a clock, all he can see is time running out.

He tries to think. He searches the justice department’s online records for any cases like his that had had a happy ending, where the blood family’s claim had been dismissed. What did it take? How bad did things have to be?

Blood is blood. The family wins almost every time. Nothing Malcolm has done has come remotely close to enough to have the Cobalts’ claim invalidated on legal grounds.

And Malcolm will know it. He’s a lawyer. He’d shown Barry some of his true colors on their second phone call, but only because no one else had been watching. Barry’s word against Malcolm’s – of course Malcolm would win. He’s just trying to bring his wayward family member home. He’s not a dangerous individualist undermining the fabric of society by denying the claims of blood and bloodline.

Again Barry thinks of the sealed vial in Hartley’s lab. It’s starting to seem as if it may come to that.

 _You could ask Eobard how the legal side is going,_ the quiet voice of reason suggests.

It’s not the first time Barry has considered it. He’s thought about it a dozen times since that first morning, coming in to STAR Labs to be greeted with the news of Hartley’s bereavement and the unexpected gift of time that had given him. Even if Barry can’t think of what Eobard might be able to do – this may be one of the few situations in the world where blue blood and extravagant wealth have no effect on the outcome – just talking to him might be a comfort. Barry may not understand how Eobard can maintain his measured calm in the face of such a situation, but there’s no denying that – as infuriating as it sometimes is – on some level, it’s reassuring.

Barry hasn’t seen Eobard, not really, since Eobard had first taken Barry aside and told him about Malcolm Cobalt’s lien. At first Barry had been angry and waiting for an apology. Now he knows it’s he who owes one, but he’s had trouble finding the will to go deliver it, in the midst of Malcolm’s threats and the shocked pause that the Rathaways’ death has thrown over much of Barry’s circle. He wishes he could just skip over all that awkwardness and –

A beeping from Barry’s terminal makes him jump. It’s just his email notification, but it startles him nonetheless. He doesn’t usually hear it. Within his pod most communication takes place by yelling to each other across their shared workspace. Otherwise, all Barry gets are benefits statements and the sort of general mass mailer that keeps a large organization (mostly) on the same page. Besides, someone usually has music on, and that drowns out the sound. But he’s forgotten to turn any on today.

For want of anything better to do, and vaguely hoping a distraction will clear his head, Barry flips over to his email client. There’s two messages waiting for him. One of them is announcing the upcoming quarterly company picnic. One of them –

One of them is from Malcolm Cobalt.

Barry’s stomach drops faster than the express elevator down from Eobard’s office in the Thawne Industries building. He doesn’t want to read it. His hand doesn’t get the memo. It clicks on the email before Barry can regain control. 

> _To whom it may concern,_
> 
> _My dear, I thought you would like to have news of my itinerary (see attached). I’ve just finalized it for my upcoming visit to Central City. The majority of my time will of course be dedicated to dealing with that unfortunate legal business, but I plan to extend my stay after the ruling to help you pack up for your big move. Cousin Bianca will be getting your room ready while I’m here. It’s very exciting! Everyone can’t wait to meet you._
> 
> _Don’t feel that you need to meet me at the airport; my flight gets in late, and I’m sure you’re busy too, wrapping up any loose ends from your stay in Central City. Instead, let’s get breakfast Friday. I’ll make reservations and send you the details. Remember, promptness is a Cobalt family virtue._
> 
> _Keep your schedule clear the rest of the morning as well. I’ll want a tour of your workspace at STAR Labs. You work with Mr. Rathaway, do you not? I welcome the opportunity to watch his expertise._
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Malcolm_

Barry reads the email in a single breathless lump and then tries to inhale all at once. His breath catches and he feels nearly dizzy, the lack of oxygen and the nausea churning in his gut teaming up for a nearly-unfortunate result.

A moment or two of clutching his wastebasket establishes that Barry is not, in fact, going to hurl. That’s good. Barry sets the wire basket down with shaking fingers and wipes the back of his mouth. He’s clammy to the touch. Caitlin would have something to say about that, but she’s down on the sublevel again. That may be for the best.

Barry makes himself look at the email again. It’s beautifully constructed. No direct reference to their hypothetical family state, but the endearments nearly send Barry scrabbling for the wastebasket again. The reference to Cobalt family values – the casual demand for Barry’s time, for his presence – the assumption that Barry will obey, because Malcolm commands his loyalty – oh, yes, it’s well done. And Malcolm may not call Barry _Michael_ , but he avoids calling him _Barry_ , either.

Then there’s the part of Malcolm’s email that requires no artistic framing. Malcolm saying he’ll help Barry pack. That a room is being prepared. That the Cobalts are excited to meet him.

The real poison in the letter is at the end. _I’ll want a tour of your workspace at STAR Labs. You work with Mr. Rathaway, do you not? I welcome the opportunity to watch his expertise._

On Friday. On Friday morning.

Hartley will be running the DNA test on Friday morning. He’ll have to. His bereavement ends Thursday night. Right as Malcolm will be getting into town. The tests are due to the courthouse by close of business Friday. And they take all day to run. Hartley will have to run them first thing.

Hartley could run them Thursday night – no. First of all, that would be suspicious enough that even Hartley’s uncle might look at it askance. And secondly, Barry has no way to ask that of Hartley. Bereavement includes a certain degree of sequestration. Barry’s no Rathaway; he won’t be able to get close enough to speak with Hartley in private, and this isn’t the sort of thing Barry can trust to an email or a phone call. He had been planning to talk to Hartley Friday morning, but that’s just become impossible.

 _What now?_ Fear spikes, threatening to overwhelm Barry. He fights it down. Panic won’t help. Only rational thought has a chance of saving him.

Moving on autopilot, Barry forwards the email to Sally. She needs to be aware of Malcolm’s travel plans, if nothing else. After a moment, Barry adds Eobard’s name to the _to:_ line. If Barry doesn’t, Sally will just forward it to him in her turn.

Barry sends the email, then sits back and sighs. He spins slowly in his chair, just taking in the sights. STAR Labs. Once this job had been the fulfillment of a dream. Now Barry wishes he’d never come to work for Eobard Thawne.

Then a thought comes to Barry.

STAR Labs. The place Eobard Thawne had built. _Dr._ Thawne. The scientist.

The _scientist_.

Barry grabs his coat from its hook, locks up his lab, and goes back out to the elevator bank. It’s getting late. But he’d bet anything that Eobard is still in his office.

* * *

Sally isn’t behind the desk when Barry gets off the express elevator. It’s a young man this time, as sharply dressed as Sally has always been. One of the other assistants Eobard has, no doubt.

“Good evening,” Barry says simply. “I am here to see Dr. Thawne.”

He doesn’t offer any further explanation. Let the other man assume what he will. And what he assumes, apparently, is that no one would be able to get this far into the building without having the right to make that demand. The man nods and presses the small button by the phone.

“Dr. Thawne,” he says. “Mr. – ”

He pauses and glances up at Barry, as if he’s only just now realized that he hasn’t gotten Barry’s name.

“Allen,” Barry says firmly.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up. “Mr. Allen is here to see you.”

There’s the barest pause. Then Eobard’s voice, made rough by the speaker, says, “Send him in.”

“Yes, sir.” The man presses another button, and waves Barry past him.

Barry gives him a short, sharp nod. Then he’s in Eobard’s office, alone with the man himself, ready to beg for his miracle.


	10. Chapter 10

Eobard stands as the door to his office opens. He takes in the sight of Barry greedily. Too greedily, perhaps, given the circumstances. Eobard should be focusing all of his resources on the problem at hand, not allowing himself to be distracted by the warmth bubbling in his chest at the mere sight of the boy.

“I just saw the email,” Eobard says, moving around his desk. “Thank you for forwarding it to me. Are you all right?”

He regrets the question as soon as he’s asked it. Of course Barry isn’t okay. How could he be? And the way Barry shakes his head, slow and weary – Eobard wishes he’d held his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Eobard says instead, all but pushing Barry into a chair. Not the one by his desk, this time, but in a small nook in the corner by the door. A little more comfortable. A little more relaxed. This isn’t a business meeting.

“Would a drink help?” Eobard offers.

“Not really,” Barry says.

“Yes. Well.” Eobard sits in one of the other chairs. “Ms. Gideon’s been keeping you updated?”

“Yes.”

“You know we haven’t found anything yet. But I’m not giving up, Barry. That’s a promise.”

Barry sighs. “Be honest, please. Do you really think you’re going to find something?”

Eobard is silent for a moment. At last he says, “The alternative is not acceptable.”

Malcolm Cobalt is a psychopath, a murderer, and an abusive narcissist. Barry _must not_ be left to his tender mercies. He must remain a West. An Allen. Nora’s son, in name if not in blood.

“I was thinking,” Barry says carefully.

Eobard looks up. “You have an idea?”

“Not – not exactly.” Barry looks almost nervous. Eobard wishes there were a way to put him at ease, but perhaps, under the circumstances, that’s impossible. He hopes at least that Barry isn’t nervous because of Eobard.

“Tell me,” Eobard encourages.

Barry moistens his lips. “It all comes down to the DNA test. Doesn’t it?”

Eobard nods slowly. “I’m afraid so.”

“There’s no way around that? A positive DNA test is game over?”

“The law is clear. So is the evidence. They have more than enough to prove that there were irregularities in how babies were identified and tracked at the birthing facility back then. Then there’s Charlene’s original positive statement that the deceased infant was _not_ Michael Cobalt… if the DNA test comes back positive, there’s no other way the judge can rule but to declare you properly a Cobalt.”

“If he does,” Barry says quietly, “they’ll own me.”

Eobard wishes he could dispute Barry’s assessment, but it is unfortunately no more than the simple truth. If Barry is really Michael, if he’s really a Cobalt – Malcolm could gain complete control over him. Malcolm could order Barry to quit his job. To move to Opal City. To never have any contact with Joe or Iris ever again. And Malcolm could enforce that decree with the financial control he would have gained over Barry. All of Barry’s assets would go to the family. No contract Barry signs in his own name would be binding without the approval of the brother Barry’s never met in person. Malcolm could void Barry’s contract with STAR Labs. Prevent him from seeking other employment. Make him dependent on Malcolm entirely.

Eobard stands. He can’t help it; he feels as if he’ll explode out of his skin, if he continues to sit there and think like that. Instead he crosses the room and stands staring out his windows overlooking the city. Back to Barry, he says, “I think we both know that DNA test is going to come back positive.”

“What if it didn’t?”

“Barry, you look just like him – short of major plastic surgery, there’s no other… explanation…” Eobard’s voice trails off as he grasps the implication.

“I don’t think the legal system is going to be concerned with finding an alternate explanation,” Barry says. “If the test is negative, the test is negative.”

“Hartley is doing the test on Friday morning.”

“Hartley is bereaved. You could assign the test to someone else.”

“On what grounds?”

“Not wanting to hold up the proceedings. Why wait till Friday? Any scientist could do it just as well as Hartley. Why – you could even volunteer to do it yourself. In the interests of swift justice.”

Eobard doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches. Eobard can feel his pulse hammering in his throat. He wonders if this moment is real. If he’s dreaming. Having a nightmare. Or if Barry could really be sitting there, sitting behind him, and asking – asking –

“Eobard – ” Barry begins.

“No.”

“Please, just listen – ”

“I said no.” Eobard still hasn’t turned to face Barry. His hand curls into a fist against the window. “I can’t. Not even for you. Please don’t ask it.”

“It’s my life in the balance.”

“You can’t win it back like this. Barry. Think. There are thousands of people employed at STAR Labs. Hundreds of thousands in Thawne Industries. I’m the head of the family. How many lives would be destroyed, if I – if there were to be a valid legal action against me?”

Barry doesn’t waste time arguing that the risk is small, but – “A professional ethics violation is a serious thing, but since you mainly don’t work as a scientist anymore – ”

“Professional ethics violation?” Now Eobard does swing around, staring at Barry in horror. “Try _kinstealing._ ”

Barry recoils. “It wouldn’t be – ”

“If there were to be a situation where I had kept a blood member of a family _from_ that family through deliberate action, yes, it would be!”

Kinstealing is a felony. A serious one. A level above kidnapping, as murder is a level above manslaughter. It’s one of the holy trinity of unforgiveable offenses. The kind that gets you shivved in prison by fellow inmates who think you’re the scum of the earth. The kind that gets your corporations seized by the state, your family disbanded, and your relatives thrown out onto the street to scratch for survival however they can.

Eobard says, “It wouldn’t just touch me. My entire family would be affected. No one would do business with us. No one would marry us. Hire us. You think the worst consequence would be that I couldn’t publish scientific papers anymore?” Eobard is almost shaking; with fear or anger, he can’t say. “If I took full responsibility and then jumped off this building, maybe, _maybe_ , my family’s lives wouldn’t be completely ruined.”

Other thoughts begin to tumble through Eobard’s head. He grasps, dimly, that he must not have been Barry’s first choice. He couldn’t have known the Rathaways would die. If they hadn’t – what might Barry have done?

“Were you going to suggest this to Hartley?” Eobard demands. Now it’s definitely anger he’s feeling. “I thought he was your friend!”

“But what can I do?” Barry asks, helpless, pleading. “What else can I do, if that test comes back positive?”

“I don’t know,” Eobard says, equally helpless. “I – I’m so sorry, Barry.”

Barry is breathing in short, sharp bursts, like he’s trying not to panic. He presses his hands to his mouth as Eobard watches. As if he’s trying to keep something in.

Eobard doesn’t know what he’ll do, if Barry begs him.

He comes back towards Barry, hands partly extended in supplication. “Ask me for something I can give, and it’s yours.”

Barry closes his eyes. “Keep me away from the Cobalts,” he begs. The way his shoulders slump tell Eobard Barry knows it’s useless even as he says it.

“I am trying,” Eobard whispers.

All his money and all his power. And none of it a damn bit of good, in the end.

“I know you are.” Barry gets to his feet. He almost stumbles as he does it. Eobard’s reaction is instinctual: he catches Barry by the arm, saving him from tripping over the small table and falling to the floor.

He’s not prepared for the results of that action. Barry’s free arm comes up to grab Eobard’s shoulder, and the frisson of electricity is shocking. Barry looks up – caught as he is, he’s shorter than Eobard in this moment. His gaze fixes arrestingly on Eobard. His face is determined, but his eyes are wet, and there’s a desperation in his aura that causes something in Eobard’s chest to wrench painfully.

Eobard opens his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say – he’s never learned how to give or receive comfort, not like this – but he wants to try. Inadequate it may be, but surely it would be better than nothing.

He’ll never find out. As it is, Eobard’s caught off guard when Barry pulls away from Eobard with what sounds distressingly like a sob. Once free, Barry all but runs for the door. Eobard runs after him, but Barry has a head start and the advantage of surprise; by the time Eobard gets out of his office, the elevator has already whisked Barry away.

“Dr. Thawne?” Eobard’s assistant asks from behind the desk, visibly perplexed. “Is everything all right?”

Eobard shakes his head dumbly. “No, Mr. Dorn, it is not.” He passes a hand over his face, trying to regain his control. “Any word from Ms. Gideon?”

“Not since the noon update,” Dorn says.

Eobard nods. Tells himself that that’s to be expected. Legal movement comes in inches, not in yards.

There’s not going to be any movement here anyway. Gideon knows it. Eobard knows it. Barry knows it.

But the thought of letting Malcolm Cobalt get his hands on Barry –

The phone on Dorn’s desk buzzes. He picks it up and speaks to the person on the other end for a moment.

“Your next appointment is here,” Dorn says to Eobard, covering the receiver with his hand. “Do you want me to reschedule them?”

Eobard almost says _yes_ without thinking. His training reasserts itself before the word leaves his mouth. “Who’s on the calendar?”

“Mr. Rathaway and fiancé, sir.”

Hartley and Cisco. Yes, Eobard remembers now. Hartley had called Eobard personally to ask to meet. He’s supposed to be sequestered, but he’d said it would be important. This isn’t something Eobard can put off. Not without hurting two of the young men Eobard has considered surrogate nephews for the better part of a decade.

Eobard shakes his head, more at himself than at Dorn. “No, that’s fine. Send them up.”

Dorn murmurs into the phone, then hangs back up. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Dr. Thawne, you may want to freshen up.”

Eobard nods absently. Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Freshen up. He walks to the restroom on autopilot.

His appearance in the mirror makes him wince. Perhaps he understands why he looks this way. Eobard’s face is drawn because he hasn’t been sleeping. There are lines around his eyes from squinting at pages of dry legal precedent. His hair is disarranged because Eobard’s forgotten to stop himself from running his hands through it while he reads. But can’t he be forgiven for that? Can’t he be allowed to be human? Barry is in _danger_. Eobard knows what Malcolm Cobalt is capable of. He knows what Quentin Lance has found in his investigations. He’s seen the records of the deaths of Charlene Cobalt, Hugo Cobalt, and Hugo Strange. He’s reviewed the profile of Malcolm that Gideon has had developed, in the hopes that it would be of use in a hypothetical legal action. But Eobard doesn’t have a doctor in his pocket, and he doesn’t have proof. Absent either of those things…

Eobard splashes some water on his face, puts his hair back into some semblance of order, and exits the restroom in time to greet Hartley and Cisco with – he hopes – his usual calm.

Cisco is once again unusually well dressed. Today’s suit is charcoal instead of true black, but the wool overcoat seems to be a staple of his new wardrobe, as does the tied-back hair and the leather gloves. He isn’t wearing a tie, but there’s a green-jeweled pin flashing discreetly on his lapel. An actual emerald, Eobard would bet, the better to show off his not-inconsiderable wealth. If the Rathaways had cared only about ability to pay, Cisco and Hartley would have been married years ago. Hartley could afford any price the Ramons would name. And Cisco’s hard work has earned him a small fortune of his own.

“We know you’re busy,” Hartley says, as Eobard shows them both into his office and into chairs. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

Hartley is still wearing full black, mourning for his parents, and despite the light in his eyes when he looks at Cisco his overall appearance is drawn and pale. He looks tired as he settles down into his chair. As soon as they’re all seated, Hartley’s hand finds its way back into Cisco’s. Eobard empathizes with the need for support and reassurance, even as he wishes he could have it so easily, for the asking.

“Allow me to add my personal condolences to that of my family for the untimely loss of your parents,” Eobard says formally. The Thawne family had made a creditable appearance at the funeral, but that had been a family affair. Eobard has an affection for Hartley that goes beyond the relationship between their families and their businesses.

“Thank you,” Hartley says. “It’s – it’s hard. Our relationship wasn’t great, but I never wanted them to die. And then… to be so happy, and to know it’s only possible _because_ they’re dead…”

He trails off. Cisco squeezes his hand tighter. The discreet lighting of Eobard’s office catches on the cufflinks he’s wearing, stamped with a familiar crest. The Rathaway family crest. Eobard’s seen those cufflinks before, on Harold Rathaway’s wrists, at too many formal events to name. Now Cisco is wearing them. Cisco, of whom Harold would never have approved. Of whom the rest of Harold’s family probably also does not approve.

Eobard, though, most definitely approves. _Stake your claim, hold on tight, and don’t let go,_ Emilia had always taught him. He’s thought of her words often, these past few days, as he’s fought to hold on to Barry. Even as he feels Barry slipping through his fingers.

Eobard shakes himself out of those maudlin thoughts. “I think,” he says, carefully – for he is not a religious man, and has never pretended to be – “that any part of your parents that may yet endure would be the better parts of them. And those parts would be only glad for your happiness.”

“Thank you,” Hartley says again, quietly.

Eobard lets the moment slide on. “What may I do for you today?” he offers, after a respectable silence has been observed.

Cisco straightens. “Dr. Thawne,” he says, “I have come to ask if you’ll stand for me, as I leave my family to be married.”

“Oh,” Eobard says, surprised. It’s an unexpected question – though in retrospect, perhaps it shouldn’t be. Usually both parties to a marriage draw attendants primarily from within their own families. But there has always been a tradition of also asking one’s closest friend to stand with one. And in blueblood weddings – of which this will certainly be one – the value of someone’s surname is at least as strong a factor in selection as is the strength of someone’s friendship.

He nods slowly. There is maneuvering here. Cisco could ask Caitlin Snow, as easily if not more easily than asking Eobard; her blood’s just as blue as Eobard’s, and she’s closer to Cisco than Eobard is. But. But Caitlin had married down, as far as Society is concerned. As Hartley is doing, never mind that Cisco has more brains than the rest of the Rathaways put together, and probably just as much money as any one of them, thanks to his generous contract with STAR Labs. Whereas Eobard is the head of his family and has contracted no such unequal marriage.

Asking Caitlin to stand up for Cisco would be an act of defiance, Cisco throwing his bloodline in the Rathaways’ faces and defying their anger. Satisfying, perhaps, in the short run, but in the longer run Cisco would probably prefer a welcoming family environment. Asking Eobard to stand up is a statement of a different kind. It says that Cisco has powerful allies and friends, of the kind that the Rathaways have been trained since birth to respect.

The silk glove, in other words. And as for the iron fist… Eobard slides Hartley a look of his own. “Who will be standing up for _you_?”

Hartley’s smile has teeth. “My good friend Caitlin has agreed to do me that honor.”

“Hah!” Eobard leans back in his chair, nodding in approval. It’s a good play. Cisco makes a statement about his ability to live up to the values idealized by the Rathaway family, and Hartley makes a statement about his _own_ ideals. “Good for you.”

“Thank you,” Hartley says, just as Cisco says,

“So you’ll do it?”

“I would be honored,” Eobard says sincerely.

“Thank you,” Cisco says, with a wide smile, not entirely free of relief.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Thawne,” Hartley says, with more restraint but no less evident happiness.

“And you know,” Cisco goes on earnestly, “if your family tries anything similar, either of us would be happy to do the same for you.”

Eobard blinks. “Something similar?”

“If they’re mean to Barry.”

Eobard blinks again.

“We know you haven’t announced anything yet,” Cisco says hastily. “Of course, it’s a big secret, you’re waiting for the right moment to announce, we get it.”

Eobard’s laggard wits gather themselves up, and he grasps what they’re saying. He’d want to laugh if it weren’t so awful. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” is what he says instead.

“Right, right – sorry,” Cisco says.

Hartley is nodding at his fiancé’s side. “Of course we have no knowledge of any such thing,” he says, which is quite a different thing than saying, _we understand we’ve made a mistake._ “Naturally you know best when the right moment for an announcement would be. It’s only that, as Barry’s friends, we’re very concerned – nearly as much as you yourself, I might venture to say – that you press your prior claim, and prevent Mr. Cobalt from interfering in Barry’s happiness.”

Eobard swallows hard. “Mr. Allen and I are not engaged,” he says, as steadily as he can. “Secretly or otherwise.”

He hadn’t realized that Cisco and Hartley had even _known_ that Eobard has developed feelings for Barry. He certainly hadn’t known that they’d imagined a secret engagement. How had they allowed themselves to be so led astray? Who else might be thinking this? Eobard has to put a stop to this now.

“I’m grateful for your concern,” Eobard concludes with a note of finality in his voice. “But I’m afraid there’s simply nothing there.”

Cisco’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Are we behind the news?” he demands. “Has your legal team found something for Barry?”

Hartley slides his fiancé a sideways look, and Cisco looks briefly abashed. Eobard has to smile in spite of himself. Hartley’s polish is like Eobard’s, though learned in a harder school. He’ll have a hard time constraining his instinctive flinch when Cisco tramples over the stilted formalities of polite blueblood interaction.

The smile doesn’t last long. “Nothing,” Eobard has to admit. “It doesn’t look good.”

Cisco and Hartley exchange a look which comprises an entire conversation. Eobard, watching, feels an odd sort of hopeless jealousy. He has no romantic feelings towards either of them, but they’re both bright young men, in the same mold as Barry. They haven’t been able to be free about their relationship before now. They’re still visibly constrained – Cisco has demonstrated near blueblood levels of emotional restraint, the few times Eobard has seen them in public after their engagement – but in front of Eobard, they’re more relaxed. It offers Eobard a glimpse of what it might have looked like, if circumstances had been different. If he’d been allowed to try to win Barry’s heart.

“I can see you don’t wish to speak of it further,” Hartley says at length. He touches Cisco’s arm, and the two of them rise. “Thank you again for agreeing to stand up with my fiancé, Dr. Thawne. We will be in contact later regarding the details.”

Eobard stands, too. “Of course.”

“As to the other matter…” There’s another quick exchange of looks between the couple; Eobard would swear he sees Cisco nod, and gesture Hartley to go ahead. Hartley does, saying, “We recommend that you consider what we’ve said.”

“In something of the light of a suggestion,” Cisco says firmly.

“Good day, Dr. Thawne,” Hartley finishes.

“Good day,” Eobard says faintly.

It’s lucky that Hartley and Cisco are Thawne Industries employees and don’t actually need help finding their way out. Eobard manages to remain standing until they leave, but the moment they do, he falls back into his chair.

In the light of a suggestion. A _suggestion._

Hartley and Cisco don’t actually think he and Barry are secretly engaged. They think he and Barry _should_ have been.

And Eobard –

He imagines it, first. Wooing Barry. Taking him to dinner, to the opera, to the other social events of his class. Going with Barry in turn to experience Barry’s amusements. Iris has said that her brother enjoys music, dancing. Eobard usually finds dancing wearying. But he would have liked dancing with Barry, he thinks.

He imagines the way Barry looks at him beginning to change. Going from a respectful distance to something warmer. Something more familiar. Something that has more in common with the fiery, righteous anger that Barry had had when he’d first come through Eobard’s door, not quite three months and a lifetime ago.

Eobard imagines proposing. Asking Barry to come to his family, to be his husband. Negotiating with Joe West. Insisting that West accept a price worthy of Barry. Society will judge Barry’s value by his last name and his dowry-price. Eobard would not let it be found wanting. Nor would anything about their wedding day be left to chance. But in between all the touches and flourishes that would be done for show, for Society, there would still be Barry. Barry would walk down the aisle in a white suit, wearing Eobard’s father’s rubies, and he’d look up at Eobard with his eyes like emeralds. He’d smile in a way that would be meant for Eobard alone –

Yes, Eobard imagines it first. But he _thinks_ about it second. And what he thinks takes him from the clouds to the ground very quickly.

It would have to have been a secret engagement, as Hartley and Cisco had implied. To enter into an engagement now would require a reference to Malcolm Cobalt, who will almost certainly not give consent. Eobard can pay in spades, but this isn’t just about money. Nor will Eobard’s surname persuade Cobalt to alter his opinion. Oh, Cobalt likes money and powerful alliances as much as the next socially ambitious head of a middle-class family. But there’s a world of difference between what the Wests are gaining from Eddie’s marrying Iris and what Cobalt would gain from Barry’s marrying Eobard. Barry isn’t legally a Cobalt. If Malcolm countenanced this marriage, Barry would never really _be_ a Cobalt, not in most people’s eyes. And it would be abundantly clear to Malcolm that the real upshot of the marriage would be to keep Barry from the Cobalt family – regardless of Eobard’s apparently-obvious feelings for him.

Cobalt wants control more than he wants money or alliances. He wouldn’t let Barry go. Which is why it is imperative to prevent Barry from ever _becoming_ a Cobalt. And why any engagement would have to have been contracted before Cobalt had ever come into the picture.

But if that is assumed…

It could work. Eobard stares sightlessly out over his office, dizzy with the thought. It _could_ work.

He sits there and thinks of the possibilities.

Perhaps an hour later, there’s a knock on the door. Eobard doesn’t respond. Dorn opens the door and sticks his head in, according to the protocol Eobard has established with his assistants.

“You have a four o’clock, Dr. Thawne,” Dorn says.

Eobard looks up from his contemplation of the coffee table.

“Cancel it,” he says.

Dorn blinks.

Eobard can’t remember who his four o’clock appointment is with. Nor can he recall what it might have been about. He is very clear on one thing, however: he does not care.

“In fact,” Eobard says, “cancel the rest of my meetings for the day.”

“Yes, sir,” Dorn says after a moment. To his credit, he only sounds a little bit surprised.

Eobard levers himself to his feet and grabs his overcoat from his coat rack. “Have my car sent around. I have somewhere to be.”

* * *

The sun is low on the horizon when Eobard pulls up to the West bungalow, the sky a riot of colors, pink and orange and coral. It gets dark early at this time of year. Eobard pulls his gloves on for the short walk from the street to the front door. He rings the bell and waits, heart hammering in his chest.

Barry opens the door. His face registers surprise, gladness, and then shame. The last one is understandable in light of their conversation earlier, but Eobard still aches to see it. He shouldn’t have spoken to strongly to Barry. It had been clear that Barry had had no real idea what he’d been asking, when he’d suggested the possibility of fudging the DNA test.

“May I come in?” Eobard asks, in lieu of having this conversation on the Wests’ front stoop.

“Please.” Barry steps back to allow Eobard to enter and closes the door behind him. He doesn’t offer to take Eobard’s coat, just gestures in the direction of the coat closet and retreats into the snug living room. Eobard elects to keep his coat on. It’s warmer in the bungalow than it had been outside, but not as warm as it had been in Eobard’s car, or in his office. Eobard looks around himself, seeing the worn couch, the modest entertainment center, the small kitchen easily visible across the small room. The heat turned low to conserve fuel or money or both. There’s a whole way of life here that Eobard doesn’t understand. Understanding it had never been deemed important for Eobard Thawne, heir and later head of one of Central City’s most powerful families. And yet there is something good here. Something that had produced Iris West, whom Eddie loves enough to follow into this life. Something that had produced Barry Allen. Who is standing in the middle of the room, looking uncertain.

“Is this about earlier?” Barry asks.

“In a way,” Eobard says, joining Barry in the living room. Now that he’s here, he finds he doesn’t know how to start. He’s never proposed to anyone before. It’s been decades since he’d thought he ever _would_. And even when that had still been a possibility in his future, Eobard had always expected it would come at the end of a long courtship, more as a formality than anything else, the verbal seal on an agreement already formed without words.

Barry is looking at Eobard, waiting for further explanation. Eobard looks away.

“You asked me for a miracle,” Eobard says to the coffee table.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Barry says. “What I asked you – that was wrong of me.”

“It’s all right – ”

“I know if there were something you could do, you’d be doing it.”

“There is something I can do.” Eobard makes himself look up. He’s not going to propose to a damned coffee table.

Barry is looking at Eobard with confusion and slowly dawning hope. “You’ve thought of a way out?”

“In fact, Hartley and Cisco gave me the idea.” _Out with it, Eobard._ “You get married.”

Barry frowns. Shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Once the judge rules, you’ll be a Cobalt, and Malcolm will have full control over you. But before that, there’s still time to change the game. You announce your engagement. An agreement contracted in good faith, with yourself and Joe West. Then you ask the judge to honor it.”

“I’m not – even if I were to get engaged tonight, it’s _after_ Malcolm filed the lien!”

“You don’t have to tell anyone that.” Eobard moves closer to Barry. “It’s an elegant solution, Barry. Disrupting the family situation of an adult like you, even if the harm took place while you were legally a child, it’s awkward. I’d bet anything Judge Rathaway would rather not do it. I’m certain the head of Judge Rathaway’s _family_ would prefer not to see it happen, either.”

Barry chokes.

 _“_ If you don’t present the judge with an alternative, he’ll have no choice. But marriage is a way out.” Eobard starts ticking off points on his fingers, willing Barry to understand. “Joe West’s authority over you ends. The Cobalts receive a legally equivalent price for your membership in their family, fully satisfying the claim they’ve made. And you get to join a family that values you as you deserve. As an individual.”

“What family would that be?” Barry is staring at Eobard with an intensity of focus that wouldn’t be out of place at the launching of a new scientific endeavor. “Who am I going to find to marry me, in the middle of this enormous legal mess?” His smile is lopsided and ironic. “What family would want me?”

 _Now or never._ Eobard takes a breath.

“Mine.” The word falls into the sudden silence with an almost-audible thunk. There’s no change in Barry’s expression. Eobard swallows his rising panic and gropes frantically after his manners. “Barry Allen, would you consent to come to my family and be my husband?”

It’s a terrible proposal, as far as these things go. Eobard doesn’t even have a ring. He hasn’t scouted out Joe West’s feelings on the match, much less gained preliminary confirmation of Barry’s own. Hell, Eobard is fairly sure Barry doesn’t _have_ feelings for him. Which is going to be its own kind of torture. But the idea of Barry being forced into the Cobalt family is insupportable. And not just to Eobard. Barry doesn’t want to join them, either. Had come to Eobard, tears in his eyes, begging for a miracle to save him from that.

Barry had come to _Eobard._ Surely that means something. Surely that means that Barry will, at the very least, view Eobard as a lesser evil. Eobard may be a Thawne – and God, Eobard had never thought that, when making an offer of marriage, his last name would be a _hindrance_ rather than a help – but Eobard has to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s shown Barry that blue blood doesn’t have to mean a hard heart. That there are worse things in life than being rich and powerful. Even if Barry feels nothing for Eobard beyond an old hero-worship and a much newer friendly regard – surely Barry would rather be married to him than join Malcolm Cobalt’s family.

Surely.

But the seconds tick by, and Barry doesn’t speak.

“I’m not joking,” Eobard tries. “I – Barry, I – I know your feelings for me aren’t… that is, I am not expecting…” He squares his shoulders and starts again. “I’m not asking that you pretend to love me,” he says. “I have no expectations of you. I promise to interfere in your life as little as possible.”

Barry has been staring at Eobard with a terrible kind of hope in his eyes. Now they slip closed, in what Eobard can only assume is relief.

“If you will consent to be my husband, I will do everything in my power to make you happy,” Eobard swears. “Your word will be my law. I – Barry – ” He’s making a terrible mess of this. He takes a step closer to Barry, then another, pulled in helplessly by the highly specific gravity Barry has always exerted on him. “Please,” he whispers. “Let me help you.”

Barry makes a sound now: a choked-off sound that is unmistakably a sob.

Eobard’s heart sinks.

“What’s going on?” a new voice interrupts. Joe West is coming down the stairs, drawn, probably, by their voices. He has probably never in his life been more unwelcome.

And yet, perhaps Eobard does him a disservice. Perhaps West is here to perform the kindest service of all: to allow Eobard to escape from this situation with his dignity, if not his heart, intact.

Barry doesn’t answer West’s question. It’s left to Eobard, voice cracking, to say, “Nothing.” He takes a step back and tries to smile. For Barry. He doesn’t know how it comes out, but it doesn’t matter: Barry’s eyes are still closed. Eobard finishes, quietly, “I was just leaving.”

“No,” Barry says suddenly. He opens his eyes and looks directly at Eobard. “No, don’t leave.”

“Barry?” Eobard whispers.

“You can’t leave yet,” Barry says to him. “You have something to ask Joe first.”

Eobard stares at him.

“Joe,” Barry says, “Dr. Thawne has made me an offer of marriage, and membership in his family, which I entreat your blessing to accept.”

West gasps, tries to pretend he hasn’t, and ends up nearly choking on his own breath. There’s an awkward moment where Eobard has to pound the other man on the back and Barry runs for a glass of water.

“Run that by me again,” West croaks after he gets his breath back.

“Mr. West,” Eobard says, “I seek your permission to solicit the hand of the your family’s son Barry Allen, to come into my family and be my husband.”

“Barry,” West says. “Is he serious?”

Barry glances at Eobard. He nods, slowly.

West subjects Eobard to a searching look of his own. What he sees makes his eyes widen.

“Joe,” Barry says, reclaiming the other man’s attention. “It can keep me from Malcolm.”

“Only if it happened… ah.” West nods. “You’ve been engaged in secret for some time, I take it?” His tone of voice makes it perfectly clear that he understands the scheme being devised.

“You approved it some months ago, as I recall,” Barry says. “Right after Iris and Eddie, I think it was.”

“A week after,” Eobard says. His throat is unaccountably tight. “Barry started working at STAR Labs, and I – I fell for him, all at once.”

“We decided to keep it a secret until after Iris and Eddie were married,” Barry picks up. “We didn’t want to steal their spotlight, and we knew that there would be nasty rumors that I’d slept my way to the top.”

“Which I would never permit,” Eobard says swiftly. “I’d protect you from that, Barry, any way I could.”

“Hence the delay,” West says slowly. “But now that Cobalt has started legal proceedings – ”

“Our hand is forced.” Barry reaches out his hand, and takes Eobard’s. Eobard startles at the touch. Barry’s skin is warm and slightly dry. Eobard can’t stop himself from rubbing his thumb over Barry’s knuckles, a tiny part of the caresses he longs to give Barry. That he hopes one day to earn.

Barry doesn’t love him now, Eobard knows. But maybe – is it hope, or poisonous self-torture, to think that maybe one day Barry could come to love Eobard? After they’re married?

“It could work,” West says. “The judge already doesn’t want to reassign an adult – it could work.”

“Especially since the judge now answers to my podmate,” Barry says with some acerbity. Eobard sighs to himself, but Barry has a point. He’s right in the middle of a brush with the worst abuses that their system of affiliation is capable of. Expecting him to be reasonable on the topic is itself unreasonable.

“I know you wouldn’t imply that any judge answers to anything but the law while on the bench,” West says, acerbic himself, but then he relaxes. “But this falls within the law.” He nods to himself, then looks at Barry. His face softens further. “Son – is this truly what you want?”

Barry just looks back at West. Something passes between them, something born of their long family ties, that Eobard has no hope of understanding. West nods again.

“All right,” he says. Then he looks at Eobard.

West says, “You had better never make him cry.”

Eobard can only nod, rendered temporarily mute by the magnitude of West’s statement. There will be other details to be worked out – paperwork to be generated, a dowry-price to be agreed upon, legal filings to be made – but that’s all formalities. In the here and now, West has agreed. As Barry has agreed. Barry Allen – the brilliant, the vivacious, the kind – Nora’s son in all but blood, who holds Eobard’s heart in his gentle hands – will be Eobard’s husband.

Barry looks at Eobard. “He won’t,” he says.

For a moment, Eobard allows himself to forget that Barry doesn’t love him, and turns to kiss his fiancé.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Coco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox) [(tumblr)](http://there-goes-all-the-cotton-candy.tumblr.com/) made some amazing [aesthetics](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/148616955120/there-goes-all-the-cotton-candy) for this chapter! Check them out, they're gorgeous!


	11. Chapter 11

“When I asked you if you knew what you were doing,” Tina hisses, “and you said you didn’t, I rather thought that you would proceed to _find out_!”

Eobard stares at her blankly. That’s not a carefully chosen social face; he actually doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He’s only just sat down at the table they’ve reserved for lunch. They haven’t even exchanged greetings yet. He is completely bereft of context.

Tina lets out a sound of frustration. “This! This is what I mean!” She all but smacks Eobard in the face with the newspaper she’s holding. She’d been holding it when Eobard had first spotted her across the restaurant, and she hadn’t put it down when Eobard had joined her.

Eobard takes the newspaper from her. “Keep it down,” he hisses, glancing around. This is a wealthy establishment, and the staff are studiedly incurious, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t take the opportunity to supplement their income by sending a hot tip to the _Central City Citizen._

Thankfully, Tina hasn’t been hitting Eobard with the _Citizen._ It’s the _Central City Examiner_ , he sees when he unrolls it. The Society pages. Of course.

“The _Examiner_ is a Reid paper!” Tina half-shrieks under her breath, a terrifying ability that is thankfully unique to her. “You think I don’t remember your father was a Reid? They wouldn’t publish this unless you were okay with it!”

Actually, very few people remember that Eobard’s father had been a Reid; the Reids are from Century City, and local myopia means that most people wouldn’t connect Eobard’s father’s birth name with the paper Eobard is holding in his hands right now. Which is convenient, and something Eobard had most definitely been counting on when he’d picked up the phone and given his father’s brother a call. Unfortunately, Tina is one of Eobard’s oldest friends, and she’s made the connection.

Eobard stares down at the paper with morbid fascination. Britt has delivered in spades. The article purports to be an in-depth look at the Rathaways’ funeral, with considerable page space devoted to the many distinguished luminaries who had attended it. Eobard naturally comes in for a substantial number of page inches. To illustrate them, the _Examiner_ has chosen to use photographs from the recent STAR Labs gala. Photographs which, without exception, show Barry Allen at Eobard’s side.

The pictures are carefully curated. In one, Barry is speaking to Eobard, and Eobard is clearly giving Barry his full attention. In another, Eobard is smiling to himself while Barry gesticulates. A third manages to capture Barry looking on wistfully as Eobard converses with another attendee.

The pictures are presented without any further commentary. The _Examiner_ is a paper of dignity that does not stoop to mere rumor-mongering. That’s the _Citizen_ ’s job. Eobard expects the first lurid headline about his torrid affair with Barry to run in tomorrow’s morning edition. Iris is already laying out the _Picture-News_ ’ more thoughtful response to follow later that afternoon.

“If this is some half-baked idea on your part to _lure_ Nora’s son to you,” Tina says, “I will personally deliver the ass-kicking that you will so richly deserve.”

“It’s not.”

“Eobard – ”

“It’s _not_.”

“Then what is this about?” Tina doesn’t look mollified. “Don’t you dare try to convince me it’s a coincidence. Or accidental.”

There’s a brief pause as their waiter approaches their table. Eobard and Tina order – from memory; neither of them have looked at a menu, but they come here often enough that they don’t need to. The waiter retreats, and Tina pins Eobard with a glare, clearly not intending to let this drop.

Eobard debates rapidly with himself. Revealing too much too soon – or too frankly – threatens their entire position. But Tina is one of his oldest friends, and she isn’t going to give up. Particularly since Barry is involved. She’d been Nora’s friend, too.

“There may be a happy announcement in the works,” Eobard says carefully.

“A happy – ” Tina cuts herself off. She holds her hand out for the copy of the _Examiner,_ which Eobard returns to her without demur. He waits as Tina flips through it again and assures herself that she hasn’t missed some vital clue. Watches as Tina refolds the paper precisely, as an expression of control, which means she’s very upset.

“There has been no courtship,” she says, voice calm and controlled and lethal. “No acculturation period. Two weeks ago you were still insisting that Barry’s employment contract made your interest inappropriate. You’re one of my oldest friends, so it pains me to question your motives, but I’m afraid I must.”

Eobard moves a hand in negation. “Of course you must. I take no offense. I can’t tell you much – ” Tina stiffens. “ – for Barry’s protection as well as my own.”

Tina’s eyes narrow. “I’m going to need more than that.”

Eobard drums his fingers on the table. “Are you familiar with the Cobalt family?”

“What does that have to do with – ” Tina cuts herself off. “No, I’ve never heard of them. Where are they from?”

“Opal City.”

“And?”

“And I commend them to your interest.”

Tina stares at Eobard, hostility beginning to temper itself with worry. “Mm. Do you.”

Eobard folds up his napkin and sets it on the table next to his plate. “I must just make a phone call, Tina, forgive me.”

She lets him go, albeit still with narrowed eyes. A quick glance as Eobard turns the corner reveals that Tina is already on her smartphone. Like any blueblood, she’ll have a subscription to the online _Who’s Who_ database; it won’t take Tina long to pull up information on the Cobalt family, or on their head, Malcolm. If Eobard gives her a few minutes, she’ll draw most of the right conclusions – or close enough – without Eobard having to say a word.

So Eobard lingers outside the restaurant. He does make a phone call, actually: to Gideon, confirming that the engagement paperwork is well on its way to being drawn up. Malcolm Cobalt’s flight gets in tonight. Barry had originally wanted to simply avoid Cobalt, but a few minutes’ discussion had produced a better plan. Barry will attend the breakfast Cobalt has arranged. So will Eobard. And so will Gideon. With copies of the engagement contract in tow.

The public setting will dampen Cobalt’s opportunities to express outrage on the spot, though Eobard is still prepared for a potentially nasty scene. Serving him with notice in person, at an ostensibly friendly meeting between parties, will also have the effect of signaling good will – not to Cobalt, perhaps, but to Judge Rathaway, certainly. And the earlier they serve Cobalt, the earlier they can submit their proposed settlement to the court. Time is not on their side here. They need Rathaway to approve the settlement _before_ the results of the DNA test have to be filed.

Gideon’s team have been working day and night since the engagement. No blueblood marriage contract is simple, but the one Eobard will offer for Barry will be breathtakingly complex. There are numerous entities involved. The Cobalts with their claim. The Wests with their legal adoption. The lingering ghosts of the Allens, who continue to possess legal existence through Barry, until Barry’s marriage into another family closes the books on them for good. And then, of course, the Thawnes.

“We’re in good shape,” Gideon tells Eobard. She sounds tired but in control. “The paperwork will be done in time.”

“Thank you,” Eobard says. “There’s a bonus in your future.”

“Of course there is. And a vacation, too.”

“All expenses paid,” Eobard promises.

Hanging up with Gideon, Eobard gives in to the urge to tip his head back against the wall and close his eyes for a moment. He’s tired. After Barry had accepted his offer of marriage, there had been bare minutes to revel in what Eobard had gained before the crushing demands of the real world had intruded. There had been paperwork to prepare. Plans to lay.

There had been people to inform. Iris and Eddie, whose complete lack of surprise had betrayed that they had anticipated the move. Meloni, who, thankfully, had been more interested in assuring herself of Eobard’s genuine feelings for Barry than indulging a misguided pride and questioning Eobard’s sanity. Gideon, who had barely waited to offer her formal congratulations before assembling a team to start on the marriage contract.

Using the media to soften the ground and begin to hint at a long-standing, scandalously hidden engagement between Barry and Eobard had been Iris’ idea, though one Eobard had embraced whole-heartedly. There’s no way to spin this so that Eobard and Barry don’t seem to have had something to hide. By putting the focus on the supposed long-running secrecy of their engagement, and by making it seem as if they’d been pressured into confessing their attachment as a result of dogged media attention and investigation, they’ll be able to minimize the Cobalt angle significantly. More so, if the media play along. Thus the phone call to Eobard’s father’s brother. The article in the _Examiner._ The follow-up article sitting on Iris’ hard drive, ready for submission as soon as the _Citizen_ takes the lure.

They will allow photojournalists to be present when Eobard and Barry have their engagement photos taken. They’ll do interviews. They’ll give detailed quotes. They’ll smile at the cameras, and let the reflected glow of the spotlight cast its own illusions.

Barry had balked, calling it bribery. Eobard – and Iris, pleasantly – had disagreed.

“It’s a question of space,” Iris had said. “A newspaper only has so much room. TV news shows only have so much airtime. They’re going to spend it on what they think people are most interested in hearing about. If we overwhelm them with juicy, grade-A gossip, their own self-interest will make them decide to cover that instead of some highly-redacted stuff about some boring old court case where the only quotes they could get are everyone saying ‘no comment’.”

“There’s plenty of room on the internet,” Barry had pointed out.

Iris had laughed. “No one believes everything they read on the internet.”

“Certainly not anyone with any pretensions of being Society,” Eddie had added, with a grin on his face that had done his bloodline and his breeding proud. “They’re all so busy decrying the death of traditional media that none of them would be caught dead repeating anything that hasn’t been printed on a dead tree. Even the morning talk shows are borderline gauche for some of the older families.”

“Though you’ll probably want to do a few of those after the public announcement anyway,” Iris had murmured thoughtfully, beginning to put together a list. “Linda Park owes me a favor, you can do _The Scene_ , and then maybe I can get some cross-promotion going with the basic cable channels…”

Barry had been looking pale. Eobard had reached for his hand, intending only to offer reassurance. Barry had clutched at it as if at a lifeline. There had been a moment when they’d looked at each other, sitting there around the Wests’ kitchen table. Iris’ voice had faded from Eobard’s hearing, and he’d fancied, just for a moment, that Barry might have liked it if Eobard had kissed him…

Eobard comes back to reality with a jolt, blinking at the harsh sunlight that glares down at him from his position just outside the restaurant. Barry had turned away almost as soon as the thought of kissing him had formed in Eobard’s mind, and Eobard had been left reminding himself of the promise he’d made Barry, when he’d offered marriage. Not to interfere. Not to presume.

Really, Eobard shouldn’t have even kissed Barry the one time. His mistake had been made abundantly clear to him when Barry had frozen in shock, unmoving beneath Eobard’s lips. Eobard had stopped at once. Tried to apologize, inadequately. Barry hadn’t responded. Had only stared, one hand halfway to his lips, ready to wipe the offending touch away.

Joe West had saved the situation; the detective had immediately begun talking about financial settlements, leaving no room for awkwardness. Iris’ and Eddie’s arrival shortly thereafter, returning to the West bungalow after their visit to the opera – Thawne box seats, of course – had finished the job of smoothing over Eobard’s mistake. He will be careful not to make another one.

Eobard tucks his phone back into his pocket and returns to the restaurant. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. When they have, he rejoins Tina at their table. Their entrées have come. Tina hasn’t touched hers, and judging by the look on her face, Eobard doesn’t think it’s only out of politeness.

“I saw Cobalt’s legal filing,” Tina says in disgust. “As much of it as is public, anyway. It makes me wish we still horsewhipped people in public for defamation. How dare that odious man besmirch Nora’s name like that!”

Eobard looks down at his plate. “Tina…”

“Don’t say it. I know. I saw a photo.” Eobard looks up; Tina is cutting her pasta viciously, with hands that seem to shake. “It doesn’t matter. He’s still Nora’s boy. You have to protect him, Eobard.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Eobard indicates the folded-up copy of the _Examiner_ , still sitting innocuously by Tina’s elbow.

Tina stills. “Oh,” she says in tone of enlightenment. “Oh, I see.”

Eobard takes a bite of his cabonara. It’s one of his favorite dishes. The chef must be off his game today, though; it doesn’t taste quite right, somehow.

“Eobard,” Tina says carefully. “Have you and Barry… discussed matters?”

“We have arrived at an equitable arrangement.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It is what it is, Tina.” Eobard moves his shoulders irritably. “This was never going to be a love story.”

There’s a muted clatter. Eobard blinks. Tina is far too well-bred to fling her utensils down in disgust, but the noise she _has_ allowed them to make is a clear signal of her disapproval.

Tina is glaring at Eobard, and she waits to be sure that she has his full attention before she speaks. “There are many kinds of love stories,” she says, when she’s satisfied she’s got it. “Yes, some of them ‘start with a glance and end with romance’, as the saying goes. But not all of them. My parents’ didn’t. It started as an _equitable arrangement_. Then, over the years, love grew. Your marriage may prove to be the same. And I don’t think it will take years, in your case.”

Eobard stares down at his pasta. “I hope you’re right,” is all he trusts himself to say.

He hopes Barry can come to care for him. He hopes – well, his hopes have always been extravagant.

A moment passes. Tina sighs. “Have you considered attendants?” she asks, changing the topic.

Eobard shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Nora should be here to give him away.” Tina taps her finger against her plate. “I’m sure Mr. West will take on that duty. But when you do consider attendants, please consider me. It would be an honor to stand for Nora’s son.”

“Thank you,” Eobard says. His gaze meets Tina’s, and he knows they’re both thinking of the vivacious, brilliant woman they’d both befriended decades ago.

“Where did the time go?” Tina sighs. “It seems like just yesterday we were young. Then Nora was killed – that seems like yesterday, too. And now her son is of age to be married.” She shakes her head. “Make him happy, Eobard.” Her eyes are sharp, and her voice is determined. “He deserves it, and so do you.”

“I will do everything in my power,” Eobard swears. This, at least, is a promise he will be able to keep.

* * *

The next day dawns bright and early. Eobard dresses in the suit he usually wears to board meetings of companies not under the Thawne Industries umbrella or otherwise allied: sharp, tailored, breathing wealth in discreet whispers from his cufflinks to his tie pin. The last thing he does is slide a heavy silver ring onto his right hand. The Thawnes are a young family by blueblood standards, dating only to the founding of Central City. Some of the old East Coast families have actual signet rings, inherited in an unbroken line from the days when marriage contracts were signed and sealed with wax instead of ink or digital affidavit. The European families likewise. By the time the Thawne ring had been made, though, there had been no need for such a thing. It’s only a thick heavy circle with an oblong face. Not that dissimilar from Eobard’s MIT or Cambridge rings, except that the crest stamped on it belongs not to an institution of higher learning but to the family whose good name is in Eobard’s charge.

Eobard doesn’t wear it often. Some family heads do. Some family heads like showing off their power and status. Eobard had been raised to believe that power and status is a weapon like any other. That it should not be drawn unless one intends to use it. And that, having drawn it, one should ensure that one’s enemies do not leave the battlefield able to fight another day.

He steps out of his front door just as his car is being pulled around. Gideon is already inside, sitting backwards. Eobard slides in opposite her as his driver accelerates smoothly out of the circular driveway.

“I have physical copies prepared for distribution this morning,” Gideon says, patting the briefcase at her side. “We have already filed with the court electronically, and electronic copies can be made available to all parties upon request.”

“Thank you,” Eobard says. He swallows. He tells himself he’s _not_ nervous.

This is somewhat undermined when Gideon says, “Our grounds are solid, Dr. Thawne. It would be extraordinary for Judge Rathaway to deny the proposed settlement, and we would have excellent grounds for both an appeal and a stay during appeal.”

Eobard has to laugh a little at his own transparency. “I know,” he admits. “I’m merely… nervous.”

“I’m told love is like that,” Gideon says.          

Love. Well, yes. Eobard does not attempt to hide from himself that he loves Barry Allen. But he thinks that he would find love much less nerve-wracking if only he could be assured that Barry returns his love.

The car pulls up at the West bungalow. They will all be arriving together, to ensure that Cobalt has no chance to divide and conquer. Eobard slides across the seat to give Barry plenty of space as he enters.

“Good morning, Gideon,” Barry says, seeing her first. Then his gaze slides sideways. “Good morning, Doctor – Eobard.”

“Barry,” Gideon says cordially. She glances between Barry and Eobard, then takes out her smartphone and applies herself to it with great attention.

“Good morning, Barry,” Eobard says gently. He takes in Barry’s ensemble with an approving eye. Barry has turned to the nicer end of his work wardrobe for this, and added a blazer for good measure, from the more upscale clothing Eobard had had added to Barry’s wardrobe after the mistake with the tuxedo had been corrected. The shirt has a discreet check pattern in light red and the tie is a bolder splash of color. Eobard wonders whether Barry’s choice of color had had anything to do with a subtle repudiation of Cobalt’s surname, or whether he had merely chosen it because it flatters. Either way, the effect is that of a young man of good family who knows his own value in the world. An excellent image to project when meeting with a narcissist.

It lacks only one thing, and through no fault of Barry’s. The idea had come to Eobard last night, when Tina’s offer to stand for Barry at their wedding had connected with the memory of Eobard’s earlier conversation with Hartley and Cisco. Eobard and Barry will need to stage-manage their relationship every bit as carefully as the future Mr. and Mr. Rathaway, albeit for different reasons, and they could profitably adopt some of the techniques Hartley and Cisco are already employing.

Barry’s work clothes are button cuffs, not French, so cufflinks would be superfluous. But Eobard has noticed in the past that Barry never wears a tie pin, despite frequently having trouble managing his ties, and has arrived at an appropriate equivalency based on that information.

Now Eobard draws the small jeweler’s box from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and offers it to Barry. “For you.”

Barry accepts it hesitantly, gaze flickering from the box to Eobard to back again. “What is it?”

 _Open it and find out,_ Eobard wants to tease. Wants to see Barry smile, then gasp in pleasure at the gift. Knows already that those reactions are not for them.

“One final touch to complete your look,” Eobard says instead. He nods towards the box.

Barry opens it. He doesn’t gasp – Eobard had known he wouldn’t – but his lips do part in soundless astonishment.

The tie clip within is not really that expensive, as far as jewelry goes – the family has several pieces for Society events that reside in the Central City Bank vault when not in use – but it had probably cost as much as Barry’s beaten-up old car. Emilia had commissioned the piece for Eobard’s father, on the occasion of their marriage. It’s palladium instead of the more traditional gold or silver. A much harder material to work with, and a much longer-lasting one. The red sparkles that outline it come from rubies, of course, in honor of the rubies Ethan had brought with him. Part of the sum the Reids had settled on Ethan at the time of his marriage, money that had been meant for Ethan’s continued support in the event of trouble within the Thawne clan. It had never been necessary. Emilia and Ethan had maintained a cordial marriage. Nor had the rubies ever needed to serve as a jointure; Ethan had predeceased Emilia, and in any case, Eobard would never have cut his father off. Ethan had been kind to his son. Respectful of his wife’s family. Responsible with the Thawne funds entrusted to him. In all ways a shining example of what a blueblood spouse should be.

The rubies on the clip are tiny and faceted, with little intrinsic value, not like the larger stones - rare pigeon bloods - that Ethan had brought to the marriage. That’s by design. They’re meant as framing for the clip, not distraction. Stamped in to the clasp itself is the Thawne family crest. That’s the part Barry sees first. Of course it is. Eobard is the one who sees his father’s rubies, his mother’s design choices. Barry sees the crest. As the world will see the crest, matching the one Eobard wears on his finger.

“I suppose you couldn’t produce a ring on short notice,” Barry sighs, turning the clip over in his hands.

Eobard makes a noise of surprise. “I apologize,” he says carefully. “I had thought you would prefer to select your ring yourself, instead of having to live with my choice.”

Barry nods. “That was very kind of you. Thank you.” _But it would have been more romantic the other way,_ Eobard hears in the silence that follows.

He’s already apologized for the mistake. He contemplates apologizing again, but for what? His nature? Eobard _isn’t_ romantic. Nor had he been given to understand that Barry would enjoy romance. He had rather been given to understand the opposite.

“We can visit a jeweler’s whenever you like,” Eobard says at last.

Barry nods again. He’s still turning the tie clip over and over in his hands, staring at it.

Eobard is at a loss. He risks a glance at Gideon. She is staring at her phone as if her life depends on reading the next email in her queue.

“Eobard?”

Eobard startles. “Yes?”

Barry is holding the tie clip back out to Eobard. Eobard’s stomach drops, the sting of rejection already burrowing under his skin.

“Help me?” Barry prompts when Eobard continues to stare at the clip, frozen. He gives a short little self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t actually know what I’m doing, here.”

 _That makes two of us,_ Eobard thinks ruefully. He takes the clip from Barry and leans over, rearranging Barry’s tie neatly before sliding it in place. He smooths the tie down afterwards, fighting the urge to linger, before finally settling back into place in his seat.

“Thanks,” Barry murmurs. He, too, relaxes somewhat into the car’s cushions. His head tips slightly away from Eobard, allowing him to look out the window. But his hand – his left hand – moves across the space between he and Eobard. It halts with several inches still between them. But the movement had been too significant to have been unintentional.

Dare Eobard think it’s an invitation?

He stares at it as the city passes by, bringing them closer to their destination. The restaurant Cobalt had chosen is an upscale place near the bustling city center. The car’s progress slows to a crawl as traffic picks up. They’ll be there soon.

Barry’s shoulders start to slump. When the car rounds a corner, Barry’s hand slides an inch back away from Eobard, and Barry makes no move to return it to its previous position.

They stop at a red light. They’re only two blocks away.

The car accelerates away from the light. Eobard finds his courage and reaches out, taking Barry’s hand.

“Oh,” Barry says, startled. He turns back towards Eobard, their gazes meeting. Underneath Eobard’s hand, Barry’s turns, palm up, and Barry laces their fingers together.

“Oh,” Eobard echoes. He feels suddenly very young and very foolish. Despite this, he feels his lips stretching in a smile. A moment later Barry grins back at him.

The car glides to a halt. Gideon coughs, looking up from her smartphone and tucking it away.

The part of Eobard that is the sum total of his bloodline and his training flares up in instinctive reaction. Gideon isn’t family, however invaluable an assistant she may be, however long the traditions of service and alliance between their families may be. Eobard should not be showing affection in front of her. Even to his fiancé.

Barry doesn’t recoil, though. He doesn’t let Eobard’s hand go. Nora Allen had never been shy about expressing emotion around others. Her son takes after her, it seems. And the rest of Eobard – the part of him that is larger than his bloodline and his training – refuses to be the first to let go.

“This is lovely,” Gideon says, “but Mr. Cobalt is waiting, and I think you’ll find it difficult to get out of the car like that.”

Barry laughs, and even Eobard finds himself smiling. They each let go at the same instant. Eobard had thought he’d feel bereft, but even as he climbs out of the car, he can feel the pressure of Barry’s hand in his. The street is too public for Eobard to retake it. But he does put his hand on Barry’s back as they enter the restaurant, under the guise of escorting his fiancé in, and revels in that small touch.

They’ve arrived a few minutes behind the specified hour, and Cobalt, who values punctuality, is already seated. Dorn had called ahead and arranged to have Cobalt’s reservation altered; the table is large enough for four, and while that may be typical enough if an establishment isn’t operating at maximum capacity, the fact that all four seats have place settings is not. Cobalt’s smile is already strained. And that’s _before_ he looks up and sees who has entered with Barry.

“Good morning, Mr. Cobalt,” Eobard says, calling on every ounce of his formidable urbanity. He chooses the seat catty-corner to Cobalt and draws it out, turning to Barry invitingly.

Barry blinks in momentary surprise, but then his lips curve in a smile that Eobard’s never seen before. It’s not precisely false, but it’s decidedly performative. Barry comes towards Eobard with a decided swish in his step, and lets Eobard settle him in that chair as if nothing could be more natural. Cobalt, Eobard notices with satisfaction as he takes the chair next to Barry, looks like he’s bitten a lemon.

Gideon takes the remaining chair. That places her next to Cobalt, who looks even less thrilled by this development.

“Have you ordered?” Eobard says to Cobalt genially. “I hear the mimosas are excellent here.”

“I have heard the same thing,” Cobalt says. It doesn’t come out through gritted teeth, but it seems like Cobalt would like it to. Nevertheless, Cobalt must be making an effort to control himself: his shoulders unclench, and his smile becomes a trifle more natural. “Good morning – ” he glances aside at Gideon. He turns his gaze to Barry, and finishes, “everyone.”

“Good morning,” Gideon says.

“Good morning, Mr. Cobalt,” Barry says with perfect courtesy – and not a flicker of recognition. Cobalt could be someone to whom he’d just been introduced at a party. Eobard keeps the proud smile off his face with the skill of long training, but under the table, his knee knocks against Barry’s.

Cobalt looks as if he’s about to say something. Eobard doesn’t give him a chance. Instead he raises a hand – the hand with his family ring, not coincidentally – and a waiter materializes next to him. Cobalt’s face tightens.

“Mimosas for the table,” Eobard says.

“Right away, Dr. Thawne,” the waiter says, and vanishes again.

“I see I’ve coincidentally chosen a familiar haunt of yours,” Cobalt says to him.

Eobard shakes his head, still wearing a relaxed expression. “This is my first visit.”

“And yet you seem to be well known?”

Eobard’s smile has teeth, now. “I am well known wherever I go in Central City, Mr. Cobalt.”

“If this isn’t a favorite restaurant, Thawne, I’m quite at a loss to account for your presence at what was _intended_ to be a – ” another glance at Gideon – “a _friendly_ meal.”

Gideon smiles. She knows perfectly well, as do the rest of them, that _friendly_ had not been the word beginning with _f_ that Cobalt would have preferred to have used.

“Friendly?” Eobard muses, content to appear to take the word at face value. “I was under the impression that this was a business meeting?” He turns slightly to Barry, who widens his eyes in seeming innocence.

“The email I received from Mr. Cobalt was quite businesslike,” Barry says. He turns to Cobalt. “Why, it was sent to my STAR Labs address.”

Cobalt frowns. “Even so,” he says to Barry. “I can't quite figure out what _business_ any of this is of _his_."

"Then you are sadly uninformed," Eobard interjects. "Don't you read the papers?"

He tosses one onto the table between them. It's today's _Citizen_. The Society pages. They’ve taken the bait, and magnificently so. The lead is yet another picture of he and Barry. This time they have their heads together, and Barry is laughing, as if at some private joke. Eobard can still see the tension in the line of Barry's shoulders, in the clench of his jaw. Malcolm won't. Neither does the Citizen. "TRUE LOVE AT LAST?" the headline blares.

Malcolm barely gives the paper a glance. "The _Citizen_ is a rag," he sneers. "And your name has been linked with every eligible bachelor in three states over the last twenty years. The only surprise is that they've apparently moved on to _in_ eligible bachelors."

Gideon clicks her tongue in polite surprise and makes a show of noting something down. "Quite a low opinion of your alleged brother, Mr. Cobalt. It does you little credit as family head."

Cobalt doesn't rise to the bait. He stares at Eobard instead. "You're trying to say the _Citizen_ got it _right_?"

"Even a blind chicken finds a piece of corn once in a while," Eobard says sententiously.

Cobalt laughs. Incredulously. “Michael, tell this stuffed shirt to get lost.”

“I trust you are not referring to either Mr. Allen or Dr. Thawne,” Gideon says sharply.

“And if I am?”

Barry holds his ground. “Dr. Thawne is here at my invitation,” he says firmly. “And my name, as I have told you repeatedly, is Barry Allen.” His gaze slides sideways to Eobard, and his cheeks pink. “Until I have occasion to change it through marriage, of course.”

Eobard returns the gaze, doing his limited best to express reciprocal affection. The public setting makes it difficult, as do the limitations of the mere meeting of eyes. He trusts he’s making a creditable showing.

“It’s a clever scheme,” Cobalt says, half-admiring, half-derisive. “But I regret to inform you that I will not approve the match.”

“If Barry were a legal member of your family, that would be sad news indeed,” Eobard replies, not looking away from Barry. “However, since he is not, I regret to inform you that your disapproval makes little difference to me.”

“The lien against _Mr. Allen_ prevents him from disposing of his property until our legal claim has been settled,” Cobalt spits. “That includes disposing of his person in the form of marriage.”

“And in view of that fact…” Eobard lets himself break Barry’s gaze and nods to Gideon. She slides a thick folder across the table to Cobalt. “We are proposing the following settlement, which we hope will be acceptable to all parties.”

It’s a generous settlement. Almost excessively so – by design. Cobalt must have no reasonable grounds for objection. Eobard will pay a ludicrously high dowry-price, far more than a court assessor would have set, and he will pay it twice. Once to Joe West, in acknowledgement of Barry’s current legal family membership, and in recognition of the resources the West family has committed to Barry’s rearing, for which Joe West will agree to waive any further right to claim. And a second time to Malcolm Cobalt. Without conceding the results of the DNA test – still caught in legal limbo by Hartley’s parents’ death – Eobard’s offer acknowledges the Cobalts’ existing filing and compensates them accordingly. Not only for Barry’s life, which still has not been proven to be theirs to command, but for the fact that they will never learn for sure what the outcome of the DNA test would have been.

There are other clauses. Cobalt skims them with a practiced eye, expression darkening with every page he turns over. Gideon has outdone herself. It will be abundantly clear to Judge Rathaway that there is no reason for Cobalt to refuse a settlement that has Barry’s best interests at heart.

The head of a family has great power, but it is not unlimited, and it is not given to them _gratis_ for their mere existence. The member of any family has the right to demand fulfillment of their basic needs from their head. They can demand food. Shelter. Medical care. Education up through the high school level. Clothes. The tools to learn and carry out a trade. And, as enshrined in the Constitution and repeatedly affirmed by a dozen Supreme Court rulings since, every member of a family is entitled to demand that their head of family ensure their access to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

A Supreme Court justice had once famously said they couldn’t define happiness, but they would know it when they saw it. Malcolm Cobalt knows it, too. He’s seeing it right now. And he’s no fool. He knows Judge Rathaway will take his cue from Hartley. The copy of the _Citizen_ Eobard had shown him earlier hadn’t just had a headline about Eobard and Barry’s hidden love. Below the fold, there’s a full-color shot of mourners at the Rathaways' funeral. Barry is clearly visible in the background of the picture. And the text dwells gushingly on Hartley, as the new family head; Cisco, as Hartley’s new fiancé; and, in the course of discussing the jobs at STAR Labs, where Hartley had found love, both Caitlin Snow and Barry Allen are repeatedly mentioned.

Cobalt finishes the last page. He turns the stack back upright, occupying himself for a moment neatening the edges. When he looks up, his eyes are blazing with hatred. Eobard fights the urge to recoil. Barry would never wear an expression like that, but this is Barry’s face. Eobard wants to look aside, to the real Barry. He fights the urge and holds Cobalt’s gaze unflinchingly.

“You think you can just walk in here, with your money and your last name, and take my brother away from me?” Cobalt hisses.

Eobard keeps his voice calm. “You have no brother,” he says. “As for my money and my last name – ”

Cobalt is glaring in fury; the space between Cobalt and Eobard is all but crackling with intensity. Gideon, sitting next to Cobalt, is still and calm as any good predator who is waiting their chance to strike. And Barry –

Barry inches over in his chair, leaning into Eobard’s personal space. He rests his chin on Eobard’s shoulder, gaze turned towards Eobard, as if Cobalt isn’t even in the room. Eobard’s head tilts back to rest against Barry’s. Somewhere, Eobard’s old etiquette teacher is probably clutching her pearls, but Eobard finds suddenly that he doesn’t care. Barry is warm where he’s pressed against Eobard, and all Eobard wants to do is slide an arm around Barry’s waist and hold him close, public setting and other patrons be damned.

Instead Eobard finishes, “You must not know Barry very well, if you think Barry would love me _for_ those things instead of spite of them.”

Barry presses a soft kiss to the line of Eobard’s jaw, just below his earlobe. His breath tickles Eobard’s skin. Eobard thrills to the sensation, even as he reminds himself that it’s just for show.

There’s a flash in the corner of Eobard’s vision – a camera flash. Moments later there are a small burst of them. This will be on the front page of at least one newspaper’s Society pages tomorrow. For that matter – Eobard resists the urge to glance at his watch, but they’ve only been here for a few minutes. If someone in the crowd hustles, they might make the afternoon edition.

Cobalt may not be familiar with the nuances of the publishing industry or the concept of a print deadline, but he certainly knows what camera flashes mean in this situation. His face darkens further at the realization that his position has just become even less tenable.

“Mimosas for the table,” the waiter announces into the strained moment, reappearing with a full tray. He deposits a glass at every place setting, then situates a pitcher carefully at one end of the table. “Is your party ready to order?”

The question is unmistakably directed at Eobard. Barry huffs a warm breathy laugh into Eobard’s ear. Eobard himself smiles directly in Cobalt’s face.

Cobalt presses his lips together. He stands, and the gesture he makes to deposit his napkin on the table is only just shy of an angry toss.

“I’m afraid I have some pressing legal business to attend to,” Cobalt says with audibly strained courtesy. “You will all have to forgive me. Excuse me.” He scoops up the folder Gideon had provided him. There’s a moment where Cobalt’s gaze fixes on Barry, turning angry and hot, and Eobard can feel Barry tense where he’s still pressed against Eobard’s side. But Gideon is watching with sharp eyes, and half of the restaurant are not even trying to hide that they have their smartphones out and are filming. Cobalt swallows his rage, turns on his heel, and stalks out.

Eobard shakes his head sadly. “What a shame,” he says for the benefit of those cameras. “But it need not prevent the rest of us from enjoying our meal. Need it, my dear?”

Barry shrugs. Eobard silently blesses the combination of Allen brains and West savvy that are keeping him there, chin still resting on Eobard’s shoulder in casual affection. “Unless there’s something else you need to do?”

Eobard smiles at Barry. It’s no trouble at all for Eobard to infuse his voice with sincerity; when he looks at Barry, there’s a moment, every time, where nothing else exists. Barry smiles back, wide and delighted. Even knowing it’s for the cameras, Eobard feels it like the warmth of the sun.

“There’s nothing more important than spending time with you,” Eobard says, and means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a visual aid to Barry playing to Eobard over brunch, please enjoy [this gif](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/148444833190) :D


	12. Chapter 12

“Turn slightly,” Lisa says for the twelfth time. Obediently, Barry shuffles a precise three degrees clockwise. Lisa makes a satisfied noise and puts another safety pin in a piece of fabric.

“Barry,” Iris says.

“Is all of this fabric necessary?” Barry asks Lisa, cravenly ignoring his sister.

Lisa tugs sharply. “How many wedding suits have _you_ made?”

“Barry,” Iris repeats.

“I’m just saying,” Barry says. “I feel like I’m going to suffocate.”

“You’re having a cold-weather wedding,” Lisa says. “You’ll be glad your clothes are winter weight when you’re taking your pictures outdoors.”

“I’ll have a coat!” Barry protests. That had been the first thing Lisa had tailored for him, actually. He’s starting to understand why Cisco has taken to wearing a black overcoat everywhere – apparently proper winter outerwear is the first thing a blueblood thinks their spouse-to-be needs.

Iris crosses her arms. “Bartholomew Henry Allen.”

“Your sister is talking to you,” Lisa says.

Barry sighs. So much for hoping she would just go away. He risks a glance over to Iris. She waves at him sarcastically.

“Iris, I’m kind of in the middle of something,” Barry tries. The sweep of his arm indicates his bedroom, usually pretty neat, now strewn all over with the accouterments of a tailor at work. The only clear spaces are the makeshift pedestal on which Barry is standing, the circle that Lisa is crawling around Barry with her mouth full of pins, and the small oasis on Barry’s bed, where Iris is holding court, gracefully reclined like a period drama heroine.

“Yes, you are,” Iris agrees with deceptive calm. “You have been ‘in the middle of something’ for the past few days, and you are going to continue to be ‘in the middle of something’ for at least the next few weeks. If I wait to talk to you until you are not in the middle of something, it will be too late.”

“Too _late_?” Barry tries to gesture emphatically and yelps when a pin sticks him.

“Don’t move,” Lisa says, for what is at least the twenty-fifth time.

Barry sighs in apology. “Iris, I’m getting married, not dying.”

“At least that’s the hope,” Iris mutters.

Barry resists the urge to slump. Yes, that’s the hope. It’s been three days since the West and Thawne families had filed their proposed settlement with the court. Of course, two of those have been weekend days, not that that necessarily means anything in the legal profession. Judge Rathaway had stayed the results of the DNA test pending his review of the settlement, which Barry knows is a positive sign, but he can’t help but be nervous. They’re due in court this very afternoon. Judge Rathaway could approve the settlement wholesale, reject it out of hand, or anything in between.

Barry _wants_ to think Iris is being melodramatic when she mutters that the alternative to marriage is death. But with Charlene’s diary still fresh in his mind, and the memory of his second phone call with Malcolm keeping Barry up at night, he’s not as sure of that as he’d like to be.

“Anyway,” Barry says, before he can think too much about that. “I really have a lot going on, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“I would, in fact, mind!” Iris cries. “I have been trying to get a hold of you for days. Stop avoiding me, put on your grown-up pants, and _listen._ ”

“You’re basically a glorified mannequin right now,” Lisa adds from her position on the floor. “I don’t need your mind, just your body.” She smirks. “So talk to your sister like a good boy, and let me do my job.”

Barry surrenders. “Fine. Fine. What is it?”

“Eobard Thawne.”

“What about him?”

“You’re marrying him.”

Barry takes a breath – a shallow one, mindful of the pins. “That’s the plan.”

Iris nods. “How do you feel about him?”

“What?”

“You know. Feelings. Those things you generally have for another person before you marry them.”

Barry looks down at his surroundings and realizes he’s been trapped. He has no way to run and nowhere to run _to_. He failed to shut this down before it began, and hoo boy, is he going to pay for that.

“I like him,” Barry says carefully.

“At the risk of sounding as if my teenage years are still ongoing instead of safely in my rearview mirror: do you _like_ him, or do you _like-like_ him?”

Barry turns bright red and doesn’t answer.

“Mm-hmm,” Iris says, regarding his blush as the admission that it is. “That’s what I thought.”

“You can’t tell him,” Barry says at once. He catches the look on Iris’ face and gulps. “Iris, you _can’t_.”

“I’m told having feelings for your fiancé is a pretty normal thing, Barry.”

“Yeah, but it’s not – ” Barry sighs. “Look, yes, I like Eobard. He’s… attractive. And nice. He’s done a lot for me. So, okay, yeah, I like him. But it’s nothing like what you feel for Eddie. And it’s certainly – I mean – it’s not like he returns my… liking.”

“How do I feel about Eddie?”

Barry blinks. Of all the things he’d just said, is _this_ really what Iris is going to focus on?

Apparently. Iris levers herself up from her reclined position, adopting a cross-legged pose, the better to command Barry’s attention. “To the best of your knowledge, how do I feel about him?”

“You – you love him,” Barry flounders.

“Barry!”

“You really love him, okay?” Barry cries. “What do you want me to say? You like his smile, right? You like the way he helps people. You like that he doesn’t let his name or his class define him. You like that he’s had experiences you haven’t, and you’ve had experiences he hadn’t, so you complement each other. You – you cover each others’ blind spots. You’ll always be there for each other. And he’d give up – well, all of _this!_ ” Lisa squawks in outrage as Barry sweeps an arm around his room, scattering pins everywhere among everything taking up every available square foot of space. Not just the fabrics Lisa had brought with her, or the tailoring kit propped open at the foot of Barry’s closet door, but – everything. The clothes in Barry’s closet, the wardrobe Eobard had paid for. The tie pin sitting on Barry’s dresser, with its family crest glaring out over the room. The way Eobard has transformed every aspect of Barry’s life – calmly, confidently, without ever questioning his right to do so.

“Hold _still_ ,” Lisa says for the twenty-sixth time, accompanying it with a glare. She pushes Barry’s arm back down at his side and jabs it with a pin in a manner that is clearly not accidental. Barry sighs.

Iris is regarding Barry with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. “Gosh. Sure sounds like a wonderful relationship.”

“Yeah.” Barry tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice; he’s not sure how well he succeeds. At least it covers the jealousy. “You’re very lucky.”

Iris frowns. Barry looks away. All right, maybe the bitterness _doesn’t_ entirely cover the jealousy, but Iris should cut Barry a break. He’s in the middle of a stressful legal case, and he’s rushing headlong into marriage with Eobard Thawne. Who, yes, is rich. Powerful. Handsome. Kind to the son of his old coworker. Zealous in assuring the happiness of his family, even when that means letting his cousin marry out into a middle-class family. Eobard is honest, and fair, and has a strict sense of honor. He pays his debts and he keeps his promises. That Barry has been nursing a steadily growing affection for him is no surprise, viewed like that.

And now, to save Barry from Malcolm Cobalt, they will marry. Barry will be Eobard’s husband. A life of leisure and wealth will be Barry’s if he wants it, with a man who has promised to maintain a distance, to treat Barry with respect, and to support Barry in comfort. And yet. And yet, Barry would trade it all in an instant, for the chance to have what Iris will have.

Barry’s never been one of those people who were always dreaming about their future spouse or planning their future wedding. But he’s still had certain hopes. Hopes for love. For laughter. For shared joys and shared tears. Barry’s wanted a marriage like the families he’s always known. A partnership, two people joining hearts and hands to forge a path through the world together.

That will never happen now. Under the circumstances, Barry thinks that Iris should really refrain from rubbing her happiness in his face.

“Barry,” Iris starts, slowly.

She’s interrupted by Barry’s cell phone alarm going off. Barry yelps, jumping – which makes Lisa stick him with a pin again. “Oh, fuck it all!” Barry cries.

“Don’t swear, it isn’t refined,” Lisa scolds. She studies the drape of fabric she’s been pinning. “Well, shit.”

Barry has to laugh. After a moment, so do Lisa and Iris.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Barry says. “I have to get dressed, I have to get down to the courthouse.”

“You have to get out of this fabric first,” Lisa says briskly. “Just hold still and let me do as much of it as possible… yes… okay, now step out of the pants.”

Barry hesitates. “Iris, look, I love you dearly, but – ”

“Say no more,” she says, hopping down off Barry’s bed and heading for the door. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Thanks,” Barry calls.

Lisa gets Barry untucked and untangled with a minimum of unnecessary pin-sticks, which makes him regret even more all the times he’d gesticulated and made her job harder. She waves off his apologies, though.

“You’re hardly the most fidgety client I have,” she laughs. “You should see Dr. Thawne getting fitted sometime.”

“Eobard?” Barry’s startled. Eobard seems like the personification of calm control. He should have no trouble standing still as a statue while Lisa does her job.

But Lisa is nodding as she hangs the fabric carefully from her portable rack. “These days it’s not so bad; thank goodness for the Bluetooth headset, honestly. Now he just takes conference calls while I’m working. Before it was a real challenge for him to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Just – stop.” Lisa shrugs. “He’s not good at not being busy, I guess. When he knows there’s something going on he can’t help helping.”

“Huh,” Barry says thoughtfully. He looks around his room again. Thinks. The clothes. The legal advice. Even the offer of marriage. _He can’t help helping._

Lisa closes the snaps on her case and puts it on top of the portable rack, which she wheels over to the corner between Barry’s bed and the wall that has become its temporary-permanent home. “All right, Mr. Allen, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck in court.”

“Thanks,” Barry says gratefully.

Lisa leaves. Barry heads over to his closet and starts pulling out clothes. Unlike the last few days, he isn’t just thinking about what color combinations will look well together, or what weights will be comfortable to wear. He’s thinking of the terms of his contract with STAR Labs. Another of the ways Eobard has tried to help him. Dressing more nicely really does have a psychological effect, Barry has discovered. And not just on others. It makes Barry feel better, too. More confident. More important. He finds himself thinking as if what he has to say is worth hearing, and speaking out more often.

Another way Eobard is helping. Barry sighs. Tells himself, again, to be grateful for what he has, instead of regretful for what he doesn’t.

Barry knots his tie carefully, watching his reflection in the mirror to make sure he’s doing it right. That’s something else new in his life. Before, he’d only wear a tie to a wedding or a funeral. Barry smooths it down into place and finds himself reaching for his dresser without conscious thought.

The tie clip gleams dully in Barry’s hand. The Thawne family crest seems to whisper to him, making promises: wealth, standing, respect. Barry closes his hand on it, something prickling in the back of his eyes. He doesn’t want any of that. He just wants –

“That was his father’s, you know.”

Barry nearly jumps out of his skin, spinning around and catching himself on his closet door before he overbalances and falls over entirely. “Jesus Christ, Eddie, when did you get here?”

“About thirty seconds ago,” Eddie says from the door to Barry’s room. Either Iris hadn’t closed it completely – truthfully, Barry had been so distracted that he wouldn’t have noticed – or Eddie has mastered the art of opening doors silently. Which wouldn’t surprise Barry either. It would be a handy skill for a detective to have.

Then Barry’s brain catches up, and he glances down at his closed fist. Slowly he uncurls his fingers. The tie clip is still there, of course. “You mean this?”

“Yeah.” Eddie pushes off the door frame and saunters the remaining two steps into Barry’s room. “Aunt Emilia had it made as a gift, when she got engaged to Eo’s dad.”

“I didn’t know that.” Barry feels guilty suddenly. He’d thought the pin had been a way of asserting ownership, or even control. Knowing it had been an engagement gift from Eobard’s mother to her husband suddenly paints it in a new light.

“Well, Eo never does something for one reason when he could do it for three.”

Barry nods slowly. So ownership _had_ been part of it. But not the only part. Another part had been… dare Barry say, sweet? _Could_ Eobard Thawne be sweet? It hasn’t seemed part of his makeup, thus far.

“Those are real rubies, by the way,” Eddie says, nodding to the clasp.

“Real?” Barry blinks. “He – surely they’re not worth much?”

“Nah.” Barry relaxes, before Eddie says, “Only about fifty thou.”

“Fifty _thousand dollars_?” Barry chokes. He almost drops the tie pin like it’s an adder, before a different set of instincts kick in and he closes his fist on it again. “ _Only_?”

Eddie shrugs. “The rubies Ethan brought to the marriage were worth considerably more.”

Barry feels like he’s on one of those rides down by the waterfront that keep spinning in new and different directions every few minutes. “How much more?”

“I don’t know exactly. Ten times is typical.”

“Ten times _what_?”

“Ten times annual.”

Barry stares at Eddie. “I have no _idea_ what you’re talking about.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to blink at Barry. “You _have_ read the marriage contract, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So you saw how your settlement is constructed.”

“You mean the life-price,” Barry says, not as confidently as he’d wish.

“No, I mean the money you bring with you when you get married.”

Barry shakes his head slowly. “I saw something about settlements in the contract, but that was money coming from Eobard, not Joe.” He’d assumed it had just been another word for life-price. It had to have been, because the thought of Eobard putting up that kind of money not once but _twice_ – the amount Eobard is paying is already ridiculous, and Barry is not entirely okay with it, though he does see that it’s the only way – but to think that there’s _more_ –

“That’s ‘cause your contract is weird. But Eo would probably have put something up for you anyway.” Eddie sighs. “It’s kind of a blueblood thing. You know a lot of marriages at Eo’s level aren’t for love.”

“I know,” is all Barry trusts himself to say. He really _does_ know. He’s walked into this with his eyes open. Marriage is a card to play like any other. One of the levers of power that people like Eobard press without thought. Eobard Thawne would never have expected to marry for love; of course he hadn’t blinked at offering marriage to Barry in order to rescue him from Malcolm. Especially since it seems to have appealed to Eobard’s white knight complex.

Eddie goes on. “Money is weird for bluebloods too. It’s not like it is with the Wests, where you’ve got everyone’s salaries going in and all the expenses going out. There’s companies, funds, trusts, charities… it gets complicated. Who controls what account, and so on.”

“I thought the head of the family controlled everything,” Barry says carefully.

Eddie bobs his head. “It starts out that way, but then you’ve got to think about how you’re going to provide for everyone. Families like yours, it’s easy, right? Adults all earn salaries. You hand part of your salary off to your family head for communal use and keep the rest for yourself and your kids. If you need something big, your family head dips into the savings account and makes the numbers work. Nice and straightforward.”

Barry’s never thought about how it must work for bluebloods, but the immediate difference is obvious. “Most bluebloods don’t have salaries.” Or at least not ones that would support their lavish lifestyles. They run charities, they serve in governments, they sit on company boards. They have wealth, not income. It’s a whole different world.

“Got it in one,” Eddie says.

“So how does it work?”

“Depends on the family. Sometimes, the head maintains strict control of the finances, and members get stipends – basically allowances – for their support. Other families – like mine – ” _And soon yours,_ Eddie doesn’t say. “They tend to favor a self-supporting model. Settle a funding source on an individual. A trust, or control of a company, or a portfolio. How you manage the money, whether it grows or shrinks, is up to you.”

“What if you go bankrupt?”

Eddie shrugs. “Oh, Eo checks in on everyone. He’s not going to let anyone starve, obviously. Anyway. The point is, if you come into a blueblood family from the outside, you have to have a funding stream of your own. Sometimes it gets handed over to the family head for them to invest, and they make you an allowance out of it. And sometimes you keep it to support yourself with.”

“I need money to support myself with,” Barry translates. “That’s what a settlement in a marriage contract is.”

“Exactly.”

Eddie looks pleased that Barry is finally getting it. Barry doesn’t know exactly what he’s feeling, but _pleased_ is probably not it.

“So when you said, ten times annual was typical…”

“Ten percent is an ambitious rate of return these days, so in your case it might be more. I haven’t seen the numbers. It’s seed capital, basically.”

“Ten percent – ” Barry thinks again of the number in the contract and is dizzy. “I can’t spend _half_ that much in a year!”

“Don’t say that ‘till you’ve tried it,” Eddie advises seriously. “You think you know what expenditures are going to be like as Eo’s husband?”

“Well,” Barry falters. “Working at STAR Labs – ”

Eddie is shaking his head. “Not even close,” he says bluntly. “Of course, you won’t be completely responsible for your own support unless something goes really wrong between you and Eo. You’ll have access to Thawne family money as well as what you bring in with you. It’s – in part, it’s a safety net.”

“A safety net,” Barry repeats.

“In case things _do_ go wrong. Or Eo dies before you – likely, unfortunately – ”

Barry shivers. He’s been avoiding thinking about the effect of the difference in their ages. Barry’s already buried the rest of his family, and the balance of probability is that he’s going to have to bury his husband, too. Bury him, and then live the rest of his life as an exile in a blueblood family who probably won’t know what to make of him. Best case, they’ll tolerate him and leave him alone. Worst case…

“ – Meloni’s pretty chill, I doubt she’ll cut you off unless you start trashing the family name, but, well, you can never be sure. Legally the family can’t let you starve, but.” Eddie’s shrug says it all. Working for the CCPD, they’ve both seen the damage a toxic family can do.

For that matter… Barry lets his gaze drift over to his dresser, where Charlene’s diary still rests. Malcolm and the Cobalts are a particularly chilling, and present, example.

“If you have an independent source of funds, you have options,” Eddie finishes. “Hence the settlement in the marriage contract. That money will remain under your control, no matter how your marriage works out.”

 _Or your widowerhood,_ Eddie doesn’t say. Suddenly the amount doesn’t seem so overwhelming, if it might have to last Barry for thirty years.

But – “Even so,” Barry protests. “It doesn’t sound like that money should be coming from Eobard.”

“Where else would it come from?” Eddie asks bluntly. “Joe can’t afford it. Besides. Eo likes to take care of people. His people, anyway.”

And Barry is one of Eobard’s people, now. He looks down, away from Eddie’s too-honest gaze, and down at his closed fist. That’s fifty thousand dollars digging into his palm. An engagement gift. And insurance. That money will care for Barry even after Eobard’s death, if Barry needs it.

“He cares about you,” Eddie says. “That’s what I came here to say. I know you’re worried. But this isn’t what you think it is, okay? Eobard cares about you.”

Barry’s throat tightens. He manages a nod.

“Right,” Eddie says, apparently satisfied. “Well, you’d better get to court. Think about what I said, okay?”

Barry nods again. He watches Eddie go, then looks down again at the tie clip. He’s been holding it so tightly that his hand protests as Barry finally relaxes his grip. There are red lines drawn into his flesh. He thinks for a moment that it’s the Thawne family crest, but it’s not: the crest is carved _into_ the tie clip. These impressions have been left by the faceting on the rubies. Tiny stones of great price, set in an heirloom, and given into Barry’s keeping.

Barry fits the clip onto his tie with trembling fingers, and goes downstairs to wait for his fiancé.

* * *

The courthouse is a familiar building downtown, a mostly square squat stone thing with a few Grecian touches for classic effect. Barry’s been here dozens of times testifying, dropping off evidence, or picking up Joe or Eddie. This time Eobard’s driver drops them off out front. Convenient, that.

“Do your best to show as little reaction as possible during the proceedings,” Gideon reminds them both. “Do not speak unless asked a question, and if you’re unsure, you may signal me to intervene.”

“Indeed,” Eobard says with calm tolerance.

“I _have_ been in court before,” Barry points out.

“A refresher is never worthless.” _Now_ Gideon sounds like every public prosecutor Barry has worked with over his years at the CCPD.

Gideon checks the assignment calendar, and they all troop down the hallway to the appropriate courtroom. This time they’ve timed their arrival to be several minutes early. Being slightly late to breakfast had tweaked Malcolm’s nose, but keeping a judge waiting is an entirely different proposition.

Malcolm is, of course, already present. He nods coolly at the three of them as they take their seats, but, to Barry’s surprise, doesn’t attempt to speak.

“This is a little weird for me,” Barry mutters to Eobard as they sit down.

“Why’s that?” Eobard glances over towards Malcolm and Gideon. Neither of them are watching, but despite that, Barry feels a warm hand on his knee a moment later.

Barry smiles at Eobard gratefully. “I’m not usually in the courtroom for this part of the proceedings.” His role is usually ‘expert witness’. He comes in, testifies, and leaves again. The beginning and ending aren’t parts he usually sees.

“Ah.” Eobard nods. “I hope that today doesn’t prove problematic.”

“You and me both,” Barry sighs. He leans back in his chair, trying to remind himself to stay calm. Automatically one hand goes to straighten his tie, before remembering that it’s already straight.

Eobard notices the motion too. In fact, when Barry had first gotten into the car at the West bungalow, Eobard’s gaze had gone immediately to the tie pin. Eobard hadn’t said anything then, but now he says, “Thank you.”

Barry glances down, then back up. “For what?”

“Wearing it. Taking care of it.”

“It was your father’s, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He came from another family. Like I’m coming from another family.”

Eobard nods.

“Was it hard for him?” Barry thinks of what Eddie had told him, about money and settlements and the possible need for independent financial support. “Did he have trouble settling in?”

“No,” Eobard says. “He was a good man. Everyone liked him.” There’s a small smile on Eobard’s face; evidently Eobard’s memories of his father are fond ones. Barry smiles, too, warmed by the sight.

Eobard says, “We’re not monsters, Barry. We have a lot of money, but we’re still people. I hope you’ll be happy with us. With me. But if you’re not – I won’t hold you.”

Barry blinks. “I hope you aren’t implying you’d beat me so I had grounds for a divorce.” He knows even as he says it that that’s not what Eobard had meant. Even if Eobard would – even if Barry would go along with it – the scandal of divorce would be immense. Eobard would never permit the slander to his family name. And Barry would be the worst kind of person if he let that happen. Eddie is his friend, his sister’s fiancé, and Eobard is – Eobard. Trashing their family name, after Eobard is giving it to Barry for Barry’s protection, would be a terrible betrayal.

“Of course not!” Eobard keeps his voice down, but he both looks and sounds horrified. “I just meant – you could live separately, you’d have separate funds – ”

“That you’d given me?” Barry takes a breath, reminding himself of the need for control. “Eddie told me what the settlements mean. I can’t take your money.”

“You’re not taking it. It’s staying in the family.”

“Under my control!”

“Did you think I would fail to support you?” Eobard looks offended – there’s that blueblood pride – but also, underneath it, Barry thinks he sees Eobard looks hurt, too. Like – like he wants Barry to accept the money. To value it.

The way Eobard had wanted Barry to accept his father’s tie pin. To value it. To see it as an heirloom, a piece of Eobard’s heritage, that Eobard is sharing with Barry. Like he’s sharing his name.

Barry takes a slow breath. He looks harder, searching for something else in Eobard’s face, his gaze, his bearing. He hardly knows what, but some quiet instinct is murmuring insistently that there is something there.

“Heads up,” Gideon murmurs, not turning her head.

Barry only realizes that Eobard has been leaning into his personal space when Eobard straightens abruptly at Gideon’s warning. His hand leaves Barry’s knee, too. Barry tries not to feel bereft. It’s moot a moment later when they all rise for the honorable Judge Rathaway.

Hartley’s uncle is an older man, older than Joe; he’s got the same short-cut dark hair as Hartley, and the same myopia, as evidenced by the old-fashioned wide-lens glasses he’s wearing. There are lines around his eyes and lips that can’t only come from frowning and throwing the book at criminals. Behind the glasses, Barry thinks he sees a twinkle in Judge Rathaway’s eyes. He’s immediately reassured. No uncle of Hartley’s could be stupid, but a sense of humor often comes with the ability to see beyond the facts and to the heart of a case.

“All right, be seated,” Judge Rathaway says when he gets settled, tart but somehow still genial. “Good afternoon, counselors. Let’s get to it.”

“Good afternoon, your Honor,” Gideon says, remaining standing as the others take their seats. “We trust that you have reviewed our proposed settlement and found it equitable.”

“The financial provisions all seem quite generous,” the judge agrees. He’s got a copy in front of him and is leafing through it, though if the speed at which he’s turning pages and skimming is any guide, he’s already quite familiar with its contents. “And I see that the West family has already agreed to the terms.” Rathaway taps something out of sight on his bench, which Barry assumes is Joe West’s signed approval. “However, I have not heard anything back from the Cobalt family.” Judge Rathaway peers at Malcolm over the top of his glasses.

Malcolm comes to his feet smoothly. “I was taking the opportunity of the weekend to consult with my family and evaluate the proposed settlement.”

“Reasonable,” Judge Rathaway acknowledges. “And what opinion has the Cobalt family come to?”

Next to Barry, Eobard is the picture of relaxed confidence, but Barry’s close enough to him to feel the suppressed tension in his frame. The same tension is thrumming throughout Barry. He doesn’t have to be a lawyer to know that this is where things can get hairy.

“We have no objections to the contract thus far, your Honor,” Malcolm begins – then, before Barry can let out a sigh of relief, he adds, “but two riders, if it pleases the court.” He produces a sheaf of papers, which are passed around.

Gideon accepts them. Her eyebrows climb. “A name change?” she says.

Malcolm folds his hands. “Although the proposed settlement obviates the need for a DNA test, it remains the position of the Cobalt family that the current Mr. Barry Allen is in fact Michael Cobalt. A position that is implicitly validated by the payment of a life-price to the Cobalt family. In recognition of this, we are seeking to have Mr. Allen change his legal name to Michael.”

“Oh,” Barry says, startled.

“The request seems reasonable, Ms. Gideon,” Judge Rathaway says.

Eobard shoots Gideon a speaking look.

Speak she does. “Your Honor, the parties I represent view this as nothing less than an attempt on Mr. Cobalt’s part to attempt to contrive an admission of birth that has no place in a marriage contract.”

Barry tries to nudge Gideon. He’s thwarted by the way she steps forward.

“It’s fine,” Barry tries to whisper. She doesn’t hear him.

Across the room, Malcolm shrugs, the picture of boredom. “As Ms. Gideon has repeatedly reminded me during our preliminary negotiations, the law can’t compel someone to answer to a particular name. The Cobalt family has no objection to Mr. Allen continuing to use Bartholomew as a middle name, if he pleases.”

“Gideon,” Barry tries again. He doesn’t want to speak out of turn, but no one seems to hear him. Not even Eobard, at Barry’s side.

“If your family has no objection, then why insist on the name change in the first place?” Gideon challenges.

“That’s a fair question, Mr. Cobalt,” Judge Rathaway notes.

Barry gets to his feet. “Because of Charlene,” Barry says, and this time he does it loudly enough that everyone can hear.

There’s a moment that seems to be the tight-laced courtroom equivalent of a record player skidding to a halt. Judge Rathaway breaks it, peering at Barry over his glasses. “You have something to say, Mr. Allen?”

“Your Honor, I have no objection to Mr. Cobalt’s rider,” Barry says, ignoring Gideon’s warning nudge and Eobard’s widening eyes. He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts, then meets the judge’s gaze firmly. “We may never know the truth about my family situation, but this matter has enabled me to learn about the history of Mr. Cobalt’s family. The untimely death of his mother was a tragedy. I know something about what that’s like.” Barry glances at Malcolm then, wondering what the other man is making of this. Part of him is hoping to see softening. Part of him is hoping to see warmth. They may all be playing out the legal sophistry that Barry’s parentage is undetermined, but no one who sees the two men side by side can really doubt that Cobalt’s claim of siblinghood is correct.

If Barry had been hoping for a moment of connection with his probable twin, though, he’s disappointed. Malcolm is indeed looking at Barry, but there’s no making anything from the expression on his face. It’s as finely lacquered as any blueblood’s, showing nothing.

Barry returns his gaze to the judge, pausing as he does to catch Eobard’s eye and try to communicate some reassurance that Barry does indeed know what he’s doing. That he isn’t just caving out of fear of the marriage settlement being thrown out. He isn’t. He means this.

Barry says, with all the earnestness and sincerity he can muster: “From what I’ve learned, your Honor, Charlene Cobalt was a good woman who tried to be a good mother to both her sons. As someone who had the good fortune to be raised by another such woman, it would be my honor to carry both of their names forward as I leave my family to be married.”

There’s another moment of silence. This one is solemn. Barry remembers, belatedly, that Judge Rathaway has just lost two members of his own family. Barry has no idea what the judge’s relationship with them had been – for all Barry knows, it had been no better than Hartley’s – but even then, Hartley had been sad at their deaths. You don’t have to have liked someone to be sorry they’re dead. Even, or perhaps especially, when they’re family.

“That is very well said, young man,” Judge Rathaway says finally. He makes a note to himself. “Ms. Gideon?”

Gideon glances quickly at Barry, then at Eobard, then back to the judge. “My clients withdraw their objection, your Honor.”

“So be it, then,” the judge says. “Clerk, if you would fetch the appropriate paperwork – ”

“Your Honor, Mr. Allen is shortly to be married,” Gideon intervenes. “Why fill it out twice?”

The judge laughs. “An excellent point! Very well, we will append it to the contract, to take effect upon marriage. Mr. Allen, how should I render it?”

“We stipulate that Michael be used as the _primary_ given name,” Malcolm intervenes.

Barry nods. “Michael Bartholomew, please, your Honor.” He feels a momentary pang for the _Henry_ , but the Garricks are still a thriving family. Jay had named his youngest son after Barry’s dead father. Henry’s legacy is safe in their hands. It’s Nora’s, and Charlene’s, that Barry is fighting to protect.

“Michael Bartholomew _Thawne_ ,” Eobard says firmly, standing. There’s a note in his voice Barry doesn’t quite understand. Nor does he understand the look Eobard is giving him. But he knows it makes him feel warm, all the way through.

Judge Rathaway makes a note. “So be it. All right, then. What’s this other rider?”

There’s a soft rustle as pieces of paper are flipped. Then silence. Gideon’s sudden indrawn breath sounds like a gunshot.

“As your Honor is no doubt aware,” Malcolm says smoothly, “a marriage contract is not fulfilled at the altar. Consummation is required.”

Judge Rathaway takes off his glasses and sets them down on the bench in front of him. “Mr. Cobalt,” he says sternly, “are you aware that this is the twenty-first century?”

“I am, your Honor, but the law is the law.”

“I have been on the bench for twenty-three years, and I’ve never seen a request like this.” Rathaway harrumphs, displeased.

Barry looks between the judge and Malcolm, utterly confused. He has no idea what they’re talking about. He cranes his neck to see over Gideon’s shoulder, but the legalese – _notice of refusal to consent to affidavit substitution for proof of consummation –_ makes no sense. He glances at the other members of his party. Gideon looks the closest to angry Barry has ever seen her. And Eobard –

Eobard _is_ angry. The stiff fury in his posture must be visible even to Judge Rathaway and Malcolm. His eyes are two chips of ice, and he’s openly glaring at Malcolm across the courtroom.

Three days ago Eobard hadn’t been willing to hold Barry’s hand in public. Now he’s glaring. The skin at the corners of his lips are turning white with how tightly they’re pinched. _What_ is going on?

Malcolm says, “Your Honor, the Cobalt family is giving up a lot here. Yes, the financial settlement is generous, but as _Mr. Allen_ so movingly referenced a few minutes ago, our losses are not only financial. We are withdrawing our request for a DNA test and giving up the opportunity to ever learn, for certain, whether Mr. Allen is my long-lost brother.” Malcolm is gesturing passionately; it’s the most animated Barry has ever seen him. He continues, pounding the table for emphasis: “This request is legal, minor, and, in our opinion, necessary to make sure that we are not once again being the victims of a third party who seek to manipulate the system for their own benefit.”

“We _object_ to this characterization,” Gideon hisses.

“Object away,” Malcolm fires back. “Unless your clients throw enough money at the legislature to change the laws, we’re well within our rights.”

“That is uncalled-for, Mr. Cobalt,” the judge stays sternly.

Malcolm’s gaze flicks back to the bench, and he seems to remember that Judge _Rathaway_ will not take kindly to veiled references to blueblood corruption. “My apologies, your Honor, I was carried away.”

“As perhaps you were when you offered this rider?” Gideon suggests.

“I don’t believe so, no,” Malcolm says.

Judge Rathaway picks up his glasses and puts them back on, reading the rider again, as if he doesn’t already know what it says. Barry is the only one still in the dark, and it’s infuriating.

The judge says, “Your presumption of bad faith on the other party’s behalf does you no credit, Mr. Cobalt.”

Malcolm spreads his hands. “I regret that you see it that way, your Honor, but the law is clear. The Cobalt family will sign no affidavit. We require that a formal examination be performed.”

“May I have a few moments to confer with my clients?” Gideon asks.

Judge Rathaway waves a hand, granting permission. “Yes, certainly.”

Gideon turns towards them both and lowers her voice. “I don’t like this.”

“Of course you don’t like this!” Eobard’s words are coming out tense and clipped. “I won’t have Barry humiliated like this. Gideon – ”

“I don’t see how we can get out of it,” Gideon says bluntly. “It’s archaic but legal. Cobalt’s within his rights.”

“To do what?” Barry hisses, sick of not knowing what’s going on. “What is a formal examination?”

Eobard stares at him, eyes wide. His mouth opens and closes once. No sound comes out.

It’s left to Gideon to explain. “Consummation is required for a marriage contract to be valid. These days, most family heads accept an affidavit from both parties that consummation took place. It’s so common that the standard marriage contract includes the boilerplate. Joe West already signed off. Naturally Doctor Thawne did as well.”

“But Malcolm won’t sign?” Barry prompts.

“No. He’s requesting a – an _older_ method. Unfortunately, it is still the legal default in some jurisdictions, including our own. After both parties to a marriage assert that consummation has taken place, a medical professional examines them.”

“Both of them?”

“No, just the person joining the new family. It’s supposed to prevent fraud in the marriage bed.”

“In this case, Cobalt is trying to use it to hurt you,” Eobard grinds out.

“Bear in mind,” Gideon says, “these laws were written two hundred years ago.”

“What does this examination consist of?” Barry looks between Gideon and Eobard, lost. “How bad can it be?”

Gideon and Eobard exchange looks. “As the partner marrying in, you will be required to submit to your spouse in the marriage bed,” she says bluntly. “Afterwards, a medical professional will inspect you for evidence of penetration. Since your spouse is male, a semen sample will also be collected and compared to another sample, which Dr. Thawne must provide. The medical professional will aver on the spot that penetration took place and a sample was collected. This will be followed, within seventy-two hours, by a positive DNA test confirming match between the sample collected on your wedding night and the sample provided by Dr. Thawne.”

Barry’s jaw drops. “You mean I have to get fucked – ”

Gideon holds up a finger. “Within twenty-four hours of the execution of the contract,” she says.

“Right,” Barry says faintly. “And then someone’s going to check to make _sure_ I got fucked. And _then_ they’re going to do a DNA test to make sure it was _Eobard_ who fucked me?”

“Yes.”

Barry’s hands come up to cover his mouth without any conscious intention. “Oh my God.”

“I won’t agree,” Eobard says to Gideon, voice still low but hot with anger. “This is nothing more than an attempt to retaliate on Barry for escaping Cobalt’s control.”

“I may agree with you,” Gideon says, “but that doesn’t change the position.”

“Does he think we’re trying to trick him?” Barry whispers. “Does he know, does he suspect – ”

“Ms. Gideon,” Judge Rathaway calls from the bench.

Gideon spins back to her feet. “Your Honor, my clients are in… disagreement… about how to proceed. We request a brief recess for further discussion.”

“Perhaps your clients should retain separate counsel, if they’re in such disagreement,” the judge says.

“A matter we will discuss, if your Honor would grant the recess?”

Judge Rathaway checks his watch. “Twenty minutes,” he says. “I’d like to get this wrapped up today, if we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Katkee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Katkee) [(literallyflashtrash)](http://literallyflashtrash.tumblr.com/) made some amazing [fanart](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/148644596990/timeforalongstory-literallyflashtrash) for this chapter! Thank you so much, it's gorgeous!


	13. Chapter 13

There’s an empty room down the hall of the courthouse that the CCPD often uses as an impromptu break room while they’re waiting to be called on the stand. Barry shuffles into it in a state of disbelief, still not entirely sure that any of this is real.

“A _swab_?” he says incredulously to Gideon.

“For collecting the semen sample,” she says. “It’s the same procedure used to do a rape kit.”

Eobard slams the door behind them. Barry nearly jumps out of his skin, then stares incredulously at Eobard. The notoriously calm and controlled head of the Thawne family looks ready to put his fist through a wall.

“Barry will _not_ submit to that,” Eobard hisses.

“Cobalt is within his rights,” Gideon repeats tiredly. “If we insist on the affidavit method, Cobalt has a reason to withhold his support _without_ running afoul of the ‘pursuit of happiness’ clause in the Constitution.”

“It turns us into the bad guys,” Barry translates for his own benefit. Gideon nods, a tiny movement of her head.

“How can he argue that _this_ will contribute somehow to Barry’s happiness?” Eobard cries.

“If your intentions towards the Cobalt family are fraudulent, then you are similarly untrustworthy as a spouse,” Gideon says. “It’s not an unreasonable construction.”

“It _is_ unreasonable!”

“Legally, it is not.”

Eobard is pacing. Barry watches him, fascinated in spite of the gravity of the situation. He knows he should be thinking about what Malcolm is trying to make him do. Trying to think of ways to get around it. Or, if Barry wants to be caught up in emotion, he could be horrified or angry or humiliated. But Barry doesn’t have any room in him for those considerations. All he can see is that Eobard is busy being horrified and angry and humiliated _for him._ On his, Barry’s, behalf.

Eobard _cares_ about him. It’s such a wonderful thought that Barry doesn’t have room for any other.

“There has to be a way out of this,” Eobard is saying.

Gideon frowns, considering. “There _is_ a legislative option.”

“Change the laws?” At Gideon’s nod, Eobard shakes his head. “That would take too long.”

 _That_ penetrates. Barry shivers. If the settlement isn’t approved immediately – and the marriage contract executed almost as fast – then Malcolm could ask for the DNA test to be reinstated, and Barry to be placed with the Cobalts until his marriage. Once under Cobalt’s control, who knows what might happen to Barry, contract or no contract?

Lisa Snart isn’t already fitting Barry for his wedding suit because Eobard likes risking his family’s money on an uncertain legal outcome. It’s because they are going to have to marry with breathtaking speed, as soon as humanly possible, after the settlement is approved. They will only have as much pageantry as they can pull together here and now in advance. Barry knows, from watching Cisco and Hartley, how important that pageantry is going to be in gaining social acceptance after his marriage. But he’ll forgo it, if that’s what it takes to stay out of Malcolm’s clutches.

Eobard sees Barry shiver and breaks his pacing abruptly. He comes over to Barry and drops into the chair next to him, reaching out and gathering Barry’s hands in his. “I won’t let him hurt you, Barry, not if there’s anything I can do to prevent it.”

Barry looks at Eobard. Really looks, for what seems like the first time in a long time. Eobard is pale with anger, his proverbial control strained. But he’s not the one who suffers if Malcolm refuses to accept an affidavit of consummation. If this is an old-fashioned but still legal standard, subjecting Barry to it doesn’t hurt Thawne’s family name. It doesn’t hurt Eobard’s position or his reputation. It doesn’t hurt his family’s businesses. It doesn’t affect him at all. The only reason to feel anger, to feel horror, to feel dismay, is if it’s on Barry’s behalf.

 _He cares about me,_ Barry thinks again.

“Gideon,” Barry says, not looking away from Eobard.

In the corner of Barry’s vision, Gideon’s head turns towards him. “Yes, Mr. Allen?”

“We can counter-demand, right? Without knocking the whole thing down?”

“Barry!” Eobard exclaims.

“For something of this magnitude, yes, I believe we can,” Gideon says.

“Good,” Barry says, ignoring Eobard for the moment. “I want to never have to see Malcolm again. He doesn’t contact me. He doesn’t contact my family. _Any_ of my families. I can’t keep him out of Central City, but if he sees me walking down the sidewalk, I want him to have to cross the fucking street.”

Gideon nods. “A restraining order. I think the judge will grant that.”

“What are you saying?” Eobard implores.

“If you can make that happen, and if Malcolm doesn’t try anything else – if he’ll approve the settlement – then I’ll do it,” Barry says. “I don’t care. I’ll do it.”

“No, wait, think about this,” Eobard tries.

“I am thinking about this,” Barry says to him. “I want to be married to you, Eobard. And I want to never see Malcolm again. If this is what it takes, then I’ll do it.” He turns his hands over in Eobard’s, taking Eobard’s wrists and squeezing them. “A moment of humiliation in exchange for a lifetime of freedom. Seems like a fair enough trade, to me.”

Eobard’s eyes are still bright, but it doesn’t seem, any more, as if that’s just the result of anger. He breathes out once, sharply, but doesn’t quite manage to speak.

“You don’t need to come back to the courtroom,” Gideon says. “I can go speak with Cobalt and Judge Rathaway.”

“Thank you, Gideon,” Barry says. He still hasn’t looked away from Eobard. “That would be appreciated.”

Gideon nods. Her footfalls are quiet as she leaves, but she makes a point of closing the door with a distinct _snick._

“Barry,” Eobard says. “Are you sure about this? It’s – ”

“How do you feel about me?” Barry interrupts.

Eobard, shocked, tries to pull back. Barry tightens his grip on Eobard’s wrists and doesn’t let him.

“I, I care for you,” Eobard flounders. “I respect you. I – You have to know I would _never_ – never insist – ”

Eobard trails off, looking like a deer in headlights. Barry considers what Eobard has said and decides that it will suffice for the moment. He can extract a better declaration after they’re married. For the moment…

“I would really like it,” Barry says clearly, “if you would kiss me now.”

“You would?” Eobard whispers.

“Very much,” Barry assures him.

Eobard visibly swallows. He looks almost afraid.

Barry takes pity on Eobard. He leans forward and closes the distance between their lips himself.

It’s much better than the kiss at their engagement had been. Then, Barry had been caught off guard, in shock, with Joe standing _right there_. Eobard had certainly not been putting his best foot forward, either, with the way he’d pulled back almost at once and started to mutter an apology. An apology! As if he had _minded_. As if it had been a _chore_.

It isn’t a chore now. Eobard still seems off-kilter, but Barry doesn’t let it stop them, keeping the pressure up and detaching one hand from Eo’s grip to slide around his fiancé’s shoulders, urging him closer. Something in Eobard seems to thaw all at once, and then, oh, _then_ it’s more like what Barry’s fantasies of kissing his hypothetical spouse have been like. Eobard pulls Barry closer, tugs Barry out of his own chair and practically into Eobard’s lap. Barry twines his arms around Eobard’s neck and happily surrenders control of the kiss. Eobard coaxes Barry’s lips apart, urging Barry deeper, sliding his own hand up to tangle in Barry’s short-cropped hair and tug. _That_ sends a spike of arousal straight to Barry’s groin, and he startles himself by moaning against Eobard’s lips.

The sound echoes off the walls of the courtroom, and Eobard pulls back, panting. Barry almost chases after Eobard, but his wits catch up at the last moment. Eobard is a _very_ private man. He’d been poker-stiff the whole time Barry had been draped over him at the restaurant, when they’d been playing for Malcolm and the crowds. They’re alone right now, but this is a public building. Not a space Eobard controls. Eobard is darting nervous glances at the door, and he’s gone tense again under Barry’s hands.

Barry steals one more brief kiss, but then sits back – all the way back in his own chair – and smooths the front of his suit down. His reward is the way Eobard visibly relaxes. Barry wants to kiss Eobard again, but he resists. Barry can afford to be patient. They’ll have the rest of their lives.

He hopes.

* * *

Gideon returns after half an hour and gives them both a satisfied nod. “Judge Rathaway approved the restraining order. Cobalt has to stay a hundred feet away from you at all times, Barry. There’s an exception if he doesn’t know you’re in a particular locale, but in a perfect world you’ll never have to see him again.”

“I’ll take him off the wedding invitation list,” Eobard says. He still sounds angry, but Barry decides to take attempted humor as a good sign.

“Cobalt had no further riders to offer, so the contract is being accepted and filed. It’s official. Congratulations on your engagement, both of you.”

“Thank you,” Barry says. He sneaks a glance at Eobard. No, now would probably not be a good time to kiss Eobard again.

“Thank you,” Eobard echoes absently. His expression is shifting from poleaxed – which is has been for the last half hour, since Barry had asked Eobard how Eobard feels about him and then kissed him – to become set and determined. “What’s the execution deadline?”

“Friday. Cobalt tried to make it close of business, but I was able to argue that a traditional wedding is at sundown, and Judge Rathaway made it Friday, full stop.”

Friday. That’s the end of the week. Five business days – Barry checks the clock; make that _four_ business days – away. Four business days to pull off the wedding of the century.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Barry says to Eobard.

“So do I,” Eobard murmurs. He rises to his feet, tugging Barry up as well. “Come on. We need to get back to work.”

* * *

The days fly by. Eddie and Iris drop their own wedding planning –  _they_ have months left on their engagement, lucky that they are – and pitch in alongside the growing army of specialists Eobard is mobilizing. There are advantages to being wealthy and blueblooded, it seems. When the head of the Thawne family says he needs flowers for a wedding by Friday, he gets them. Barry may wince at the price tag, but the flowers will be there, looking every bit as beautiful and stylish as if they’d been meticulously designed months in advance. Trinity Cathedral declares themselves pleased to hold a ceremony on no notice. The reception venue is a trifle harder, but a budget-minded couple are soon discovered who would rather give up their reservation and hold their reception in a nearby park in exchange for an enormous check. Eobard arranges all the permits for use of the outdoor space, including, as an extra thanks, special dispensation for fireworks over the lake. And then he pays for the fireworks.

“Maybe _we_ should have gone for the park reception,” Barry says when he hears this. “I love fireworks.”

“Will you settle for fireworks for your birthday?” Eobard asks seriously. “For the wedding, everything should be as traditional as possible. I know it’s not your taste – ”

“But the advantages will be enormous. Yes, I know. I was just joking. Please don’t actually have fireworks in honor of my birthday. That would be embarrassing.”

“Ah.” Eobard nods. “Noted.”

Barry eyes him sideways. “You were really going to do it, weren’t you?”

“You said you liked fireworks.”

Barry gives up and steals a kiss. There’s really no other way to react.

They hold their engagement party directly the following day, in what Eobard euphemistically refers to as his townhouse. It’s not what Barry thinks of when _he_ thinks of a townhouse. It’s the size of a full house, owned by the Thawne family collectively, and it’s laid out for the express purpose of holding events. There’s a large reception space taking up most of the front of the house and extensive kitchens and laundry in the rear. The second floor is divided between dressing rooms and small apartments for select out-of-town guests and Thawnes alike. Apparently there’s a thriving branch of the family in National City who return home for major events. The third floor are even smaller apartments for the full-time staff.

The party itself, despite having been pulled together on short notice, is a Who’s Who of the elite of Central City. Barry spends the evening being conducted around on Eobard’s arm, smiling on cue, and doing his best to memorize as many names as possible. No one is openly hostile, even the attendees from outside the family, and Barry suspects the guest list of having been carefully curated. It’s a bewildering array of people whose names Barry is more used to hearing on the news than in an in-person introduction accompanied by a handshake.

Even so, there are more familiar faces than Barry would ever have believed if someone had told him he’d be here six months ago. Caitlin Snow introduces a stern-faced woman with warm eyes as her head of house, Elsa. Ms. Snow looks Barry over approvingly and tells him she thinks he’ll do fine and not to let anyone get his chin down. Tina McGee introduces _her_ heir and graciously agrees to stand for Barry during his marriage. Hartley Rathaway, newly out of mourning, makes a formal show of introducing his fiancé before relaxing into a smile and wishing Barry well. Cisco hugs Barry in his enthusiasm, creating a minor flutter of well-bred surprise in the surrounding observers, but making Barry feel instantly better. There’s something else going through nearly the exact same thing Barry is, and they can navigate this brave new world together.

Towards the end of the night, Eobard visibly brightens and steers Barry towards a young man about Barry’s age, who’s just arrived. “Bruce!” Eobard hails him, and then more formally: “Barry, this is Bruce Wayne of Gotham, who has agreed to stand for me when we marry. Bruce, my fiancé, Barry Allen.”

Barry shakes hands. He knows Wayne by name, of course. And by reputation. Not just for Wayne’s business endeavors, either. Wayne had lost his parents to violent crime not long before Nora and Henry had died, and none of the Central City newspapers had ever lost an opportunity to mention the Wayne and Allen murders in the same breath. Barry’s already predisposed to feel a bond with Wayne, and that feeling only intensifies when Wayne breaks into a wide grin.

“Congratulations,” Wayne tells Barry sincerely. “And thank you. I don’t know what you did to capture this one’s heart – ” jerking his head towards Eobard, who, astonishingly, colors – “but please, keep doing it. He deserves some happiness. Has he told you he saved my family’s company from utter ruin?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Eobard protests.

Wayne is having none of it. He insists on regaling Barry with the full tale. Barry listens in awe, sending admiring glances towards Eobard that he doesn’t even try to hide.

“And I’m sorry I got in late tonight,” Wayne finishes, “but when you called, Eo, Alfred wouldn’t let me out of the manor until he’d found this.”

Wayne produces a small wrapped package, which he hands to Barry with great aplomb. Barry thanks Wayne as he’s been taught – it’s not the first such gift he’s been handed tonight – and immediately passes it on to Eobard to take charge of.

“It isn’t,” Eobard starts.

Wayne nods.

Eobard swallows, and opens the package with less measured caution than Barry had ever seen Eobard exhibit in public. Barry turns his head as much as politeness permits, looking down to see a beautiful, old-fashioned silver watch nestled in the folds of the paper.

“Thank you,” Eobard says, sounding almost choked.

“It’s the very least I could do,” Wayne says gently. He nods to Barry. “Mr. Allen. A pleasure. I hope we’ll become friends.”

Wayne withdraws discreetly. Eobard swallows. He folds up the watch in its wrapping, but doesn’t beckon over an attendant to whisk the gift away, as he’s done with all the others. Instead Eobard slides it into his inside jacket, and throughout what remains of the evening, Barry sees Eobard touch the side of his jacket, reassuring himself that it’s still there.

* * *

Later that night, after the party has ended and the guests have gone home, Eobard explains. “You know I went to Gotham to help Bruce after his parents died.”

Barry nods. He’s kicked off his shoes – they’re stylish, but uncomfortable – and curled up on a sofa. Not one of the gorgeous, uncomfortable, and totally unused chairs in the formal receiving room where the party had been given. He and Eobard have gone upstairs to a small den off the dressing room that’s apparently given up to Eobard’s permanent use. Most members of the family bring their accouterments with them and occupy a dressing room temporarily, but not Eobard. As the head of the family, he attends all formal family events, and so he has his own space.

The space next to it will apparently be Barry’s from now on. He’ll be expected to attend the same events Eobard attends, with only rare exceptions. Soon this opulent event townhouse will be as familiar to Barry as the West bungalow has been.

“Bruce’s grandmother was a Thawne – my second cousin twice removed. It was a love match.” Eobard is standing by the mantelpiece; the fireplace, a gas-burner, is on, though most of the warmth of the small room comes from the excellent central heating rather than the flames. Eobard’s taken a photo album out of a neighboring glassed-in cabinet and is leafing through it. Halfway through Eobard pauses, turning towards Barry and showing him a portrait of a man and woman, both dressed at what would have been the height of style for the time. They’re smiling at each other instead of the camera. The woman – Eobard’s ancestor – is holding a bouquet, one of the traditional signs that she’s the party who has married in.

“She looks so happy,” Barry murmurs, studying the picture of that long-ago couple.

“Her sister was head of the family at the time.” Eobard points to another picture, this one hanging on the wall. There are family snapshots scattered throughout the room. Not the large, formal portraits that had loomed over their guests at the party tonight. In this private room there are snapshots and Polaroids, candid pictures of people who had smiled and laughed and loved, independent of their illustrious family name. The picture Eobard points to shows two women, both with the Thawne nose, though one is blonde and one is dark. “When Annalise married out, Elisabeth gave her their father’s watch as a keepsake. It’s been in the Wayne family since. Thomas Wayne wore it often. Bruce had it after his death. I never thought to see it back.”

Barry props himself up on the wide arm of the couch, chin on his arms, studying the object Eobard holds out to him to see. “It’s beautiful,” he says candidly. The watch is of the old-fashioned kind, but the workmanship is evident, and evidently exquisite. The styling is silver with blue accents in a classic geometric design that will never go out of style. “Won’t Bruce regret giving it away?”

Eobard shakes his head. “This changes its nature again,” he says. “When my mother’s predecessor owned this, it was a Thawne family heirloom. When Elisabeth gave it to Annalise, it became a keepsake. By giving it back to me now, Bruce has made it a symbol. It represents the alliance between our families.”

“That’s more than standing for you during our wedding?” Barry checks.

“Agreeing to stand for me is a personal show of support. This is more. This commits Bruce’s descendants.”

“And ours,” Barry says.

“And ours,” Eobard agrees. “It’s a tremendous gesture.” Eobard is studying the watch, looking moved. “We are fortunate in our allies, Barry.”

Barry sits up straighter. “So what do we do?” he wants to know. “How do we honor it?”

“I wear it – certainly at our wedding, and often at formal events afterwards. You as well. This gesture is for you as well as I. Bruce made that clear when he gave it into your hands first.”

Barry nods. “And then?”

“It goes to Meloni when I die – you will give it to her, when you disburse my personal effects. Then she, or perhaps her heir, will give it to Bruce’s descendent at the next opportune event. Their coming out, perhaps, or their marriage. With each exchange, the ties between our families are reaffirmed.”

Barry bites his lip. He nods; he doesn’t trust his voice.

Eobard notices. Of course. “What’s wrong?” Eobard looks down at the watch, then up again. “You don’t wish to refuse?”

“No,” Barry says quickly.

“Then what?”

Barry swallows. “You,” he manages to say, voice as steady as he can make it. “Dying. How can you talk about it so casually? You dying, and me being left behind?”

Eobard comes around the side of the couch, sitting down cautiously next to Barry. “The odds are that that’s how it will be,” he says simply.

“I know,” Barry says to the couch’s arm. “I – I guess I’m just not resigned to it.”

Eobard reaches out and lays a hand on Barry’s hip. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what to say or do about that.”

“Is there anything you _can_ do?” Barry lifts his head up, turning – sitting is abruptly too much effort, so he slides down, propping his head up on the arm of the couch so he can continue to look at Eobard. His feet end up in Eobard’s lap. In most settings that would make Eobard tense up, but in this small family den, Eobard only smiles at Barry, soft and sad.

“No,” Eobard says.

“Then we’ll just have to live with it,” Barry says, swallowing.

Eobard nods slowly. Hesitates. Asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Barry looks at him. “Yes.”

Eobard starts to lean over, then stops. “Wait just a moment.”

Barry watches with interest as Eobard slides off the couch, lifting Barry’s feet up and settling them back down again, and crosses over to the door. He locks it, then comes back and nudges Barry over, sitting down at the couch by Barry’s hips and then swinging his own feet up.

Barry considers suggesting they take this elsewhere – the couch is wide, but not as wide as, say, a bed would be, and there are beds here. For long-term guests, or for family members who live out of town but need to stay in the city for the day. But some instinct makes Barry hold his tongue. He and Eobard haven’t kissed since that moment in the courthouse. Nor have they really done anything else. The spark that had ignited between them during that kiss is real; Barry feels it burning in him whenever he looks at Eobard, or when he’s at home, alone, trying to sleep in an empty bed. He’s not a teenager – Eobard certainly isn’t – but somehow that makes it worse. They’re both adults. They’re _engaged_ , for God’s sake. And they’ve barely touched. They’re touching now, Eobard’s legs tangling with Barry’s, and though they’re both fully clothed, it feels shockingly intimate. Barry doesn’t dare do anything to disturb the moment. He barely dares to breathe as Eobard’s fingers ghost over the line of his jaw.

Eobard kisses Barry softly – not hesitantly, but with that careful deliberation that characterizes his movements. It’s like nothing Barry has ever felt before. If he’d been asked in advance, he would have said that he’d find it frustrating. He’d have said that he prefers fast and hard. He might have made a joke about youth and energy versus age.

He’d have been so wrong. Barry finds himself opening under Eobard’s kiss like a flower in the sun, parting his lips for Eobard and spreading his legs a little wider, encouraging Eobard to settle between them. Eobard doesn’t quite take the invitation, which if Barry had had his way might have ended with them rutting against each other and coming in their pants. Eobard just presses closer, one hand under Barry’s back, the other cupping Barry’s jaw, holding Barry in place and exploring his mouth lazily. As if Eobard has all the time in the world. And it’s Barry who feels like he’s running out of time as he pants and moans and feels himself hardening in his pants, unspeakably aroused by the simple expedient of a mere kiss.

Eobard kisses like he’d been teaching a class in it, showing Barry how he can be completely undone with nothing more than a simple press of lips. When Eobard finally draws back and lets Barry breathe, Barry can’t even form a request for more, for friction, for release. He can only lie there and pant.

“I wish it could stay like this,” Eobard murmurs, tracing patterns over Barry’s lips that make his nerves tingle. “Just the two of us.”

It takes Barry’s sex-drenched brain a few moments to make the connection. When it does – when the wedding night, and Malcolm’s insistence on a formal examination, recur to his memory – it puts a definite damper on Barry’s burgeoning arousal.

“It will be worth it,” Barry says, as much for his own benefit as Eobard’s. It’s not that he doesn’t believe that – he does – but in the quiet, hushed intimacy of the bubble the two of them have created, the thought of admitting any third person is sacrilege. Never mind a third person whose job it will be to essentially violate Barry in the name of proving consummation.

“Have you decided who you want to do it?” Eobard asks.

Judge Rathaway, possibly in an effort to apologize for the fact that this law is still on the books, had decreed that the Thawne and West families would choose the medical professional who will examine Barry on his wedding night. Barry’s first thought had been to ask a friend – Caitlin, perhaps – but then he’d wondered if he’d be able to look Caitlin in the face every day at STAR Labs after that, and thought it might be better to have a stranger after all. Barry’s been hesitating between the two extremes either since, unable to make a decision. Putting off a decision in part because it makes the inevitability of the procedure seem less. That’s a dodge Barry can’t really afford. Their wedding is in three days. Fortunately, he thinks he may have come up with a solution.

“I was thinking of Patty,” Barry says. “Patty Spivot. My old coworker, at the CCPD. She’s CSI, like me, but she’s been taking classes in medical examination. What kind of qualifications do you have to have? She’s not an M.D., but if they’ll accept a professional certificate, she earned hers last month.”

“I don’t know,” Eobard says. “I will ask Ms. Gideon. Or you may, if you prefer.”

“You ask?” It’s cowardly, but Barry is still happiest when he thinks of this as little as possible.

“I will do so,” Eobard promises. He runs a careful hand down Barry’s side and drops another kiss on Barry’s lips. In a burst of anger, he says, “I hate this.”

“Me too,” Barry says honestly. “But it has to be this way. It does.” He reaches up to Eobard, draws him back into a kiss.

“I wish there were something I could do.”

“There is,” Barry says intently. “On our wedding night, do this. Make me forget that there’s anything besides the two of us. At least while we’re together. Make the rest of the world go away, so I don’t think about what’s coming. And then stay with me when it happens. Okay?”

“I will,” Eobard swears.

They kiss more after that, but the conversation has blunted Barry’s arousal, and presumably Eobard’s as well. Eventually the kisses peter out. Eobard helps Barry, stumbling by then with weariness, to one of the family cars. The streets are empty with the lateness of the hour. The driver gets Barry home in no time, and Barry falls asleep on his cold sheets, dreaming of a warm body and soft lips.

* * *

If Barry had thought being affianced would mean seeing more of Eobard, he’s doomed to disappointment: pulling together everything that’s needed for the wedding in such a short period has been taking up all of both of their time, and very little of the preparations require both of their presences. Barry is already on leave from STAR Lab – thank goodness for their generous vacation package – and Eobard’s niece is getting a taste of running the family businesses a little earlier than anyone had planned. Between that, and Eobard’s army of assistants, they might just pull all of this together. But it doesn’t leave any room for quiet moments alone with Barry’s fiancé.

The time they _have_ managed to spend together has all been devoted to the business of getting married. In addition to their engagement party, Eobard has attended some of Barry’s etiquette lessons; Barry is receiving crash courses in everything a blueblood needs to know, with a focus on formal reception etiquette, for which Eobard’s presence is crucial. Then there’s ballroom dance. Bluebloods apparently don’t just sway on a parquet floor and call it a first dance. They’ve settled on a waltz as by far the easiest for Barry to master in a short time. It will make them boring by modern standards, but the waltz never goes out of style, and there are only three steps to memorize.

Tonight they’re on the way to the cathedral for their rehearsal. Eobard’s usual car pulls around to the front door of the West bungalow precisely on time. Barry climbs in next to Eobard and smiles as his fiancé immediately reaches across the seat for Barry’s hand.

They’d gone to the jeweler’s together, as Eobard had first offered, though finding the time for it had proven harder than planned. Barry had started to think he’d have to go by himself, but Eobard had called him unexpectedly just before noon yesterday and said he’d found a free hour, is Barry available? Barry had met Eobard at the address given and found that the jeweler’s, an old and distinguished name in Central City, is usually closed on Wednesday afternoons, but had made a special exemption to make the future Barry Thawne’s engagement ring.

Nor had that been the only surprise. Eobard had brought a small case to the jeweler’s with them, and opened it before Barry’s disbelieving eyes to reveal a dazzling array of precious stones.

“Family stones,” Eobard had said. “If you want something new, of course, that’s no problem. But I thought you might like to see what’s available.”

The upper left-hand corner of the case had held a small handful of rubies, red as blood, some the size of a quail’s egg. Barry hadn’t had to ask to know that those had been the rubies Eobard’s father had brought to the marriage – the Reid rubies, as Barry has since learned, having also received tutoring on the history of the Thawne family and their bloodlines. Eobard hadn’t indicated a preference in word or deed, but Barry had known his own mind immediately.

Barry knows enough to know that cutting down one of the larger stones would have been heresy, but there had been several smaller rubies buried beneath the large. They’re set now in a simple wide band of yellow gold, shining beautifully even in the fading light of the setting sun. Barry had resisted any attempts to choose a different setting. The gold supports the rubies rather than overwhelming them. He likes that. Barry also likes the roughness of the rubies as he spins the ring briefly around on his finger, making Eobard smile as their reflected light flickers over his face. The stones have been polished, of course, and the rough edges planed, but not faceted. He likes the rawness of it. Barry is raw, too, a work in progress, but that makes him no less valuable.

The jeweler had taken Barry’s measurements, taken the stones, and sent the final product over by courier the next day – Thursday morning. It’s Thursday night now, Barry is on his way to his rehearsal dinner, and Eobard is seeing the ring for the first time.

“It looks good,” Eobard murmurs, rubbing his thumb across one of the rubies.

Barry looks down at his engagement ring and smiles without conscious intention. “Yeah. It does.”

Eobard’s ring had also been commissioned, but he won’t wear it until the ceremony tomorrow night. To complement Barry, he’d also opted for gold as his base, choosing an alloy with a fascinating pattern.

“The effect is called mokume-gane,” the jeweler had explained, showing Eobard and Barry an example. “Red gold by itself is brittle. It’s best as inlays, or alloyed. This is with yellow gold.”

“It looks like synapses firing in the brain,” Barry had said. “Like – like lightning.”

“You like it?” Eobard had asked.

“Don’t you? Eo, it’s perfect.”

“Elegant, original and unexpected,” the jeweler had said. She’d pulled out her ring sizer suggestively, and Eobard had nodded and held out his hand.

 _That_ ring is Bruce Wayne’s keeping, where it will remain for the next twenty-four hours. Wayne himself is waiting outside the cathedral when their car pulls up, chatting amiably with Tina McGee.

“Good evening,” Tina says as Eobard and Barry get out of the car, immediately taking charge of Barry’s arm, much to Eobard’s visible chagrin. “My goodness, you’ve been busy, Eobard. People are going to be talking for weeks about how much you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”

“It was either that or listen to them talking about what a slapdash affair the wedding was,” Eobard says ruefully. He lets Wayne claim him and start dragging him into the cathedral. “Excuse me, I appear to be needed inside.”

“Meloni is already here,” Wayne says.

Barry waves as his fiancé is pulled away. “I’ll see you in a minute,” he calls after Eobard.

Tina pats Barry’s arm as Eobard vanishes from sight. “Now, I promise not to meddle too much,” she says, “but since Nora isn’t here, I must act for her. How are things between you and Eobard?”

“They’re good,” Barry says. “Really,” Barry adds when Tina looks skeptically. “We’ve – we’ve talked, we’re good.”

“You’ve talked,” Tina says skeptically.

Barry raises an eyebrow. “You find that hard to believe?”

“Frankly? Yes. I’d be happier to hear you’ve kissed.”

Barry tries to keep his composure, but it’s a lost cause: he can _feel_ his cheeks catch flame.

“Aha!” Tina says, sounding much happier. “All right then. That’s much better. I’m glad to hear you and Eobard have worked things out.”

“Thank you,” Barry manages.

Tina pats his arm again. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not usually this nosy, truly, but your happiness isn’t a game. Neither is Eobard’s. I suppose I ought to be giving you a shovel talk, but then I’d need to give Eo one too, and it would get awkward rather quickly. Suffice it to say that if you should ever need anything, and Eobard can’t or won’t provide it, you need only ask.”

Barry blinks. A few months ago he wouldn’t have understood the magnitude of the offer Tina has made, but he’s learned a lot since then. Tina, having made the offer, is looking unusually pensive. Barry’s had enough etiquette drummed into his head in the past week to know better than to ask. But he can look a question, and he does.

Tina sighs. “You know I was friends with your mother,” she says. “But perhaps you didn’t know that I wished to be more than that.”

Barry’s eyes widen.

“It was a long time ago,” Tina says gently. “Your mother preferred men rather exclusively, so there was never a relationship. And now don’t go thinking I broke my heart over it and that’s why I never married. It was an old _tendre_ , and I have nothing but fond memories over it. I didn’t tell you this so you could be sad over it. I told you it so you understand that I mean what I’ve said. You’re the last living piece of Nora, and I do believe Eobard will take care of you as you deserve. But just in case, you can always come to me. All right?”

“All right,” Barry manages. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. There, that’s enough of that. I think I see your family arriving.” Indeed, another car is pulling up, and Joe, Eddie, and Iris all climb out.

“Are we late?” Iris asks, concerned.

“No, the Thawnes are just early,” Tina says briskly. “They’re all inside already. Now you’re here we can begin.”

“I’d better get on in then,” Eddie says. He jogs off for the church.

Joe, Tina, Iris, and Barry follow more slowly. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Tina says to Joe. “Tina McGee.”

“Joseph West.” They shake. “I understand you were a friend of Nora’s.”

“Yes, I was at STAR Labs with she and Eobard. You knew the family through Henry, I understand?”

“Childhood friends,” Joe says. “Then Iris and Barry were just the same.”

“The circumstances that led Barry to your family were tragic, but you have raised a fine young man,” Tina says. “On behalf of my old friend, thank you.”

Joe shakes his head. “The honor has been all mine,” he says, “and that has been true since long before these illustrious achievements have come his way.”

Barry is blushing again. He pushes open the church door in lieu of speaking.

There’s a moment where everyone arranges themselves into position and waves at the other group assembled by the altar. The celebrant isn’t actually here tonight; they’re being run through rehearsal by the deacon, Mimi, a short, round woman of East Asian descent with an equally round smile who has clearly done all of this before.

“All right, we’re going to do this quickly,” Mimi says. “No music, and we’ll _blah blah blah_ for most of it. We’ll prompt you for everything during the service itself. We know you’re not used to this.”

That’s more true for Barry than for the average blueblood, since his family – when they go to church at all – attend Presbyterian services, and this is the highest of high church Episcopalian. He takes a deep breath. Down at the other end of the church, Eobard waits at the altar. Meloni and Eddie are standing for him as family members, and Bruce Wayne in pride of place at Eobard’s side. Wayne sees Barry looking and flashes him a thumbs-up.

“Processional!” Mimi says. “Lovely music, very nice. First attendant!” She beckons to Iris, who sets off obediently. “Yes, lovely. Next!” That’s Tina’s cue. She trots off after Iris. Barry blinks away the tears that briefly threaten. His little cousins should be here, not so little any more. His family. Iris is family too, of course, but –

“And bride!” Mimi calls.

“Come on,” Joe says. “Let’s see how this feels.”

Barry lets Joe draw him forward. They move quickly – there’s no need to synchronize their steps with the nonexistent music – but the walk feels very long. When he does this tomorrow night, it will be for real. Barry’s past will be behind him, left farther behind with every step. And his future ahead of him. With Eobard.

Mimi is still directing. “Attendants over here. Good. West, hug your son. Cry all you want. You’re saying goodbye. Okay, Thawne is the head of his own family, so West, you shake hands with him directly. Very good. West! Take your son’s hand and place it in Thawne’s. You’re done, step back. Now, the couple faces towards the altar…”

Mimi’s voice fades into the background. Barry looks down at his hand in Eobard’s. The ring on his finger gleams, gold and red. He looks up. Eobard’s eyes catch his.

 _I love him,_ Barry realizes suddenly.

Barry doesn’t just care for Eobard. He doesn’t just find him attractive. Somewhere along the line, Barry has gone and given his heart away. Eobard will keep it henceforth, as Barry will keep Eobard’s name, and do it all the honor that in him lies.

 _Who’d have thought,_ Barry thinks. _It’s a fairy tale after all._

“Let’s get married,” Barry says impulsively, and turns to face the altar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: [Elrhiarhodan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan) ([tumblr](https://tmblr.co/mKtLivVGp_8REe4K1HdD-IA)) made some amazing [aesthetics](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/148763686265/aesthetics-post-for-the-marriage-bargain-chapter) for this chapter! Squeeee :D It's absolutely stunning!
> 
> AND! [Amber](http://amber-flicker.tumblr.com/) made some [FANART!](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/148997941870/amber-flicker-it-looks-good-eobard-murmurs) Yes! It's a double feature! Go and adore it, it's gorgeous :)
> 
>  **AND AND** [Scritchyscratchy](https://tmblr.co/m1LWEcY2Ir3TsI8OACGkh4A) ALSO made some [fanart](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/150492966020/scritchyscratchy-ok-so-i-made-a-thing-kyele)! Holy moly, you guys are overwhelming me with all of this amazing stuff! Hnnng, just look at this :D Everyone please go and shower all of these talented creators with well-deserved praise!
> 
> Also, the role of the jeweler in today's chapter was played by the ever amazing Elrhiarhodan! I do not actually know all these things about jewelry-making; she does, and I am indebted to her for her assistance :)
> 
> And now, the bad news (you'll notice I waited until the end, when I had you all rolling in happy feels!): I am going on vacation! (Wait, I hear you cry; why is that bad?) Well, it's not bad for me, but it may be bad for you: it means a short hiatus in fic writing, since I cannot both write and vacation. 
> 
> I may post a short snippet this Friday, but otherwise there will be **no update** until Friday, August 26th. Yes, I'm afraid you read that right. It's a long vacation. I'll be reading reviews with great joy and delight, so if you want to send me some to spice up my vacation, that would be lovely!
> 
> Thanks everyone for coming this far with me, and I hope you'll all still be here when I return! (Reminder: the wedding night is still to come, if that gives you any incentive to stick around ;D)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last... THE WEDDING CHAPTER.
> 
> A quick note on US Christian denominations, since there were some questions in comments! The Episcopal (Episcopalian) Church is the US name for the Church of England (Anglican, though actually calling yourself an Anglican church in the US has a different meaning... it's a long story). It's basically Catholic Lite - all of the pageantry, none of the guilt (or the Latin). If you are familiar with Roman Catholic ceremonies, just imagine one of those, and you'll be more than close enough. You stand, you sit, you kneel, you cross yourself, you recite the Nicene Creed. There's no such thing as confession or mortal sins, we solemnize same-sex weddings, trans people can be clergy. It's a good time for all, especially the kids!
> 
> Some other wedding references for your pleasure:
> 
> Music:
> 
> [Voluntary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WVMv5aVFLs) (plays before the ceremony, while people are being seated)  
> [Processional](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Af372EQLck) (plays while the bridal party are walking down the aisle towards the altar)  
> [Recessional](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1088E6E2fY) (plays while the wedding party are walking back down the aisle away from the altar)  
> [Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WcepABsbx8) for Eobard and Barry's first dance (h/t Coco for finding the perfect song!)
> 
>  
> 
> [Cake!](https://www.google.com/url?q=https%3A%2F%2Fs-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com%2F564x%2Fe7%2F2d%2Fb9%2Fe72db95e27dc94e094b927ef1e54a308.jpg&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHlUW7qw0U-D93q9uewz-ePNjN_EQ)
> 
>  
> 
> Meloni is played by a young [Grace](http://foreveryoungnews.com/system/post_images/images/2307/large/Grace_Kelly._Rex_Features..jpg) [Kelly](http://foreveryoungnews.com/system/post_images/images/2305/large/Grace_Kelly_1950s_Photofest.jpg) (h/t elrhiarhodan for finding the perfect pictures!)

“The flowers – ”

“Delivered this morning, Dr. Thawne, and there are already people at the church setting them up. They will be done in plenty of time.” Leonard Snart – Lisa’s brother, and an event planner without equal – doesn’t look up from his smartphone. His fingers are flying, sending further instructions to the small army of minions who are even now working to produce a wedding that will seem as if it had been months in the planning.

“Parking attendants,” Eobard realizes suddenly. “We forgot parking attendants.” The cathedral won’t be providing their own, unlike most venues Eobard is used to holding events in.

“ _You_ forgot parking attendants,” Snart drawls, unfazed. “ _I_ hired them yesterday. Relax, Dr. Thawne. You’re in good hands.” Snart hums his company’s jingle ironically and taps a button on his smartphone. Matters apparently well in hand, Snart steps back and opens his hands with a flourish.

“My sister dropped off your tux this morning. You’ll change here and then head to the cathedral. Be sure to arrive by 4:00pm. We need you inside and in your waiting room before the bridal party arrives at 4:30. Ceremony is at 5 sharp.” Snart smirks. “Never thought of it this way before, but there are advantages to a winter wedding, aren’t there? Sunset comes early, and so does the wedding night.”

Eobard throttles the urge to, well, throttle Snart. Snart has no idea of how much Eobard is simultaneously anticipating and dreading the wedding night. He’s as eager as a teenager for the opportunity to be intimate with Barry; it’s really quite embarrassing, and he’s taken great pains to keep that to himself, though he’s fairly sure some others have guessed. But always at the back of his mind is the knowledge that afterwards will come the examination. Court-ordered humiliation that Barry will have to endure because of Malcolm Cobalt’s spite.

That Eobard has been unable to prevent. Those laws are _going_ to change; Eobard’s niece Maia, better known as City Councilwoman Thawne, is already mobilizing the necessary political support. But it will be too late for Barry. Eobard will have to bear that failure throughout their marriage.

Snart strolls off, unconcerned. He’s organized far too many events for Eobard in the past to stand on formalities like dismissal; he’s clearly spotted something that needs doing and is off to do it. Eobard, watching him, envies Snart his unconcern. Snart knows that the examination has been stipulated for, of course; it had been in the papers, along with all the other terms of the marriage contract. But Snart doesn’t turn a hair at it. Very few people do. Partly that’s because Eobard and Barry have gone to great lengths to keep their distaste for it out of the spotlight. To do otherwise would be to hand Cobalt a victory they’re both determined to deny him. But partly because – as Iris had put it in disgust – the general sentiment seems to be that when you climb the social ladder, you’d best be prepared to put up with some speed bumps.

At least Eobard has been able to arrange for Ms. Spivot to perform the examination, in accordance with Barry’s request. Gideon had confirmed that her professional certification is adequate under the bylaws of Central City. Eobard had reached out to her personally to make the arrangements. She had been quite willing, once an NDA had been signed and the matter had been explained to her.

Eobard sighs. He’d had to send Barry an email informing him of that fact. He hasn’t seen Barry since the rehearsal last night. And he won’t, until Barry appears in the doorway of the church to take the symbolic walk from his old family to his new.

Tradition. Everything about this wedding will be traditional. Even still, some families will turn their noses up at Barry. But they’re lucky, Eobard keeps reminding himself. Hartley Rathaway will acknowledge Barry, and his countenance will carry weight among the old blueblood families who haven’t turned away from Hartley already because of Cisco. Bruce Wayne, too, is a powerful ally; his blood is positively ancient. Britt Reid, Eobard’s father’s birth brother, is flying in from Century City. Another old family. And the new families are too economically tied in to Thawne Industries to snub Barry entirely.

Not to mention that Tina had once promised to thump anyone who dared to cut Barry. So there’s that.

And Eobard is dawdling, trying to avoid thinking of the passage of time between now and when he has to leave for the church. He shakes his head at himself and moves towards the back of his house. He keeps a home office there, with secure uplinks to Thawne Industries. There will no doubt be a pile of emails awaiting his attention, and while Meloni has been handling everything admirably, still it never hurts to check…

Eobard doesn’t end up in his office. He finds himself walking past the door, down to the end of the hall where the bedrooms are located. This house is his private property, located on several acres on the outskirts of the city. Only Eobard lives here. The larger clan-house is located in one of the city’s small residential pockets not far from its heart. Any Thawne who wishes may have lodging there, room and board inclusive, at no cost to them. There’s a room there kept for Eobard too, when he doesn’t want to make the drive all the way out of Central City. But this house is his. A retreat, of sorts.

He walks past his own suite and finds himself standing at the door of the mirrored suite adjacent to it, one hand hovering over the doorknob for an endless second before he shakes his head at himself and pushes the door open.

This room has been empty since the house had been built. The house has guest rooms, but this isn’t one of them. This can never be one of them. This suite connects to Eobard’s through a door in the bedchamber, and is destined for only one thing: to house Eobard’s spouse.

It’s been kept scrupulously clean since Eobard had moved in by the small group of servants who care for the house. But Eobard himself has set foot in it only once before, right after construction had been completed, during a walk-through with the builder before Eobard had signed the certificate that everything had been as planned and forwarded the final payment. Back then these rooms had been empty. And they had stayed that way, until earlier last week, when Barry’s and Joe West’s verbal agreement had set a train of events in motion.

Now Eobard steps into the room and surveys it. Iris had been involved in its fitting-out; she knows Barry well, and had been able to offer suggestions about Barry’s preferences that the interior designer had incorporated. The final result manages to remain true to the modern wood-and-chrome lines of the rest of the house while still including numerous soft touches that speak to its future owner’s warmth, compassion, and generosity. Splashes of color abound, from the deep scarlet throws over the carved-wood bed to the moss-green curtains that shroud the room’s windows. The door to the walk-in closet is ajar, and inside it Eobard can see Barry’s clothes have already been brought over and hung, waiting for their master.

Eobard peeks into the en suite bathroom and sees it is just the same. There’s a toothbrush with obvious signs of use sitting in the holder, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, and an array of personal grooming products Eobard doesn’t recognize but that are all in various stages of depletion. The movers had come through yesterday, after the interior decorator had finished her work. Barry is living out of a small duffel and travel kit back at the West bungalow. The wedding will take place later tonight, but Barry’s life is already here. When Barry crosses the threshold of this house, he will be a Thawne, and this will be his home.

Eobard catches at the lintel of the bathroom door. He’s breathless, all of a sudden, in a way that multibillion dollar mergers or fraught society gatherings have never made him. The thought of Barry in his home – the thought of Barry _at home_ here – sends his senses reeling.

He retreats through the connecting door to his own suite, thinking to gain a measure of control thereby. This proves to be an error. Barry may be to occupy the suite of rooms next door as his home, but it’s in Eobard’s rooms he’ll spend his wedding night. The sprawling, monochrome bed with its sheets and comforters still disarranged – Eobard hasn’t been out of the house yet this morning, and the servants won’t interfere while he’s around – are where Barry will lie back and, in the words of the law, submit to his new husband. Eobard’s mind attempts to present him with a far more lascivious interpretation of the dry legalese: Eobard squashes it mercilessly.

The good news, if anything about this can be said to be good, is that Ms. Spivot is eligible to perform the examination and has agreed to do so. The necessary paperwork has all been filed. Eobard had made the time to have a personal word with Ms. Spivot, expressing in no uncertain terms how distasteful the entire matter is to both he and Barry, how Barry’s asking for Ms. Spivot reflected a trust and faith in her friendship that Eobard would hate to learn has been misplaced, and reinforcing the utmost importance of strict professionalism.

Ms. Spivot, Eobard had learned, is cut from a similar mold to Barry himself. She had heard Eobard out with a solemn air. Then she’d smiled, patted Eobard on the arm, and assured him that Barry would be safe in her hands.

He sincerely hopes so.

Eobard leaves the rooms behind, closing the door on them and disciplining himself to go to his office. Once there, though, he fails to immerse himself in any sort of productive work. His mind keeps going to the wedding. He imagines the church. The ceremony. The vows.

The vows had been the only part of the service they’d actually gone through in full at the rehearsal. The rest, as the deacon had promised, had been a lot of filler, as in: “Dearly beloved, blah blah blah, okay, now you can sit down for this next part – ”

But the vows they’d actually recited. “It’s never a good idea to try to recite something in public without ever having practiced it before,” she’d said practically, “even with a prompter on hand.” So they’d gone through them. Barry had had no problems for most of it. Blushing a little, he’d readily promised to have and hold Eobard, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health. But then…

“To love, cherish, and obey,” Mimi had prompted him, and Barry had come to a stumbling halt.

“Barry?” Eobard had asked, worried.

Barry had looked at him. “Obey?” he’d asked. “I’m supposed to promise to obey?”

“It’s traditional,” Mimi, the deacon, had said sternly.

“Not at the kind of weddings I usually go to.”

“This isn’t the kind of wedding you usually go to, young man.”

Barry had pressed his lips together, the charming pinkness of his cheeks lost in sudden pallor.

“Just skip it,” Eobard had ordered, watching Barry, still worried. “We’ll talk about it later.”

They’d gone through the rest of the abbreviated rehearsal ceremony with noticeably less warmth. The moment Eobard had found himself alone with Barry, having just been guided back down the aisle at the ostensible end of the ceremony, he’d seized his chance to talk.

“It’s an older form, I know,” Eobard had said. “It’s – ”

“It’s because you’re the head of your family, and very rich and powerful, and I’m some nobody who’s getting to socially advance,” Barry had said wearily. “And everything needs to be pin-perfect in order to win as much acceptance as possible. I do know that.”

“There are other forms. We don’t have to – ”

“If I don’t promise to obey you, people will talk, won’t they?”

“Let them.”

That, at least, had made Barry laugh, though there had still been something sad in his eyes that Eobard hadn’t liked. “No, leave it,” Barry had said. “I understand the necessity.”

The rest of the wedding party had arrived in the nave on the heels of Barry’s pronouncement, and the moment had been lost. The two groups had split themselves up, bride and groom, and Barry had been whisked away, not to be seen by Eobard again until tonight’s ceremony.

Eobard had done his best to put it out of his mind. Barry had said _leave it._ He’d said he’d understood the necessity. But Eobard thinks, suddenly, that far too much of their relationship is being dictated by necessity. And he thinks – more slowly – that a marriage predicated on vows one partner doesn’t want to make is no marriage at all.

He turns back to his keyboard and sends two emails, short and sweet. The first is to the church, requesting a change to the ceremony. The second is to Barry, telling him what Eobard’s done.

 _I know you said to leave it,_ Eobard writes in closing, _but I can’t. I don’t want anything you aren’t willing to give. I hope you’ll forgive my presumption._

There will be some small social cost for the change in the ceremony. But it will mainly be Eobard’s to pay, not Barry’s. People will want to know why _Eobard_ hadn’t required his new husband to promise to obey. That makes it acceptable.

The remaining hours until the ceremony pass in a blur. Eobard makes another attempt to work, but accomplishes exactly nothing and completely fails to feel badly about it. He’s yanked out of a stupor – he can’t even honestly claim to have been thinking or daydreaming – by the knock on the door.

“The car will be out front in thirty minutes, Dr. Thawne,” his housekeeper calls to him.

Eobard rises from his chair, half-panicked. “Thank you,” he says automatically, even as his adrenaline spikes. A quick glance at his clock validates his housekeeper. It’s already after three P.M., and Eobard must be at the cathedral by four.

It’s a good thing that Eobard has been in and out of formalwear for most of his life. He gets into his tuxedo with the rapidity of habit. It’s a new piece of clothing, of course. Everything for the wedding is – only think of the scandal if Eobard were to marry in a suit he’d worn before – but all the buttons and zips are still in the usual places. Lisa had gone for the classic look at Eobard’s instruction; when the pictures come back, his wedding suit will look as if it could have been passed down from generation to generation of Thawne males. The jacket and slacks are black and traditionally cut, the shirt a snowy white and crisply pressed. His cufflinks are silver. Heirlooms, naturally. So is the signet ring Eobard slides on last. He spares a moment to be thankful, as he’s putting his hair in order, that men’s hairstyles are so much simpler than women’s. Then he’s tying his tie and hurrying to the front door, just as the car pulls around.

Traffic is thankfully light. Trinity Cathedral is located in the heart of the city, one of the oldest churches to have been built here. It sometimes claims to be the oldest, though the original two buildings to bear the name had both burned down; the current building dates to the 1800s. It’s still beautiful. Stone arches soar to an impressive height and the stained glass is lit up with a riot of colors in the setting sun. The grounds are modest but well-groomed. They’ll take some pictures outside, Eobard thinks.

Bruce Wayne is waiting at the church door when Eobard’s car pulls up, and he hurries Eobard inside without ceremony. “I just got the call from Iris that Barry’s party is running early,” he explains. “We need to get you out of sight.”

There’s a small room off the altar where various clergy wait between or during services. For the purpose of today’s ceremony it’s given up to the groom’s party. Meloni and Eddie are already within, decked out in their various finery. Eddie’s and Bruce’s suits are slightly less formal versions of Eobard’s, incorporating a colored vest of deep burgundy and gold-polished buttons. Meloni is stunning in a floor-length burgundy gown. Iris and Tina have the same dress in a champagne color. Burgundy and gold are the colors of the wedding. The ladies had all gone to the hairdresser’s yesterday and gotten highlights in their respective colors, too; the burgundy looks particularly fine with Meloni’s usual strawberry blonde, which she’s done in cascading ringlets for the occasion. Eobard kisses her cheek in a daze. She’s as tall as he is. Statuesque, a woman grown, with her easy, confident carriage and frank, assessing blue eyes. Eobard thinks, suddenly, that he’s going to have to stop thinking of her as a child. Why, she’s as old as Barry is, thereabouts. Or as young as Barry is, to put it another way. She’s Eobard’s heir. She’ll have the care of all the family for much of her – and Barry’s – life.

“Take care of him when I’m gone,” Eobard says to her, heart in his throat.

Meloni hugs him. “Of course I will,” she promises.

“Come on, it’s your wedding day, none of that,” Eddie protests. He comes up and gives Eobard a hug, too.

“You look terrified,” Bruce says frankly, omitting the hug, but looking Eobard over with a critical eye. “Cold feet?”

“Just the opposite,” Eobard admits.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Meloni marvels. “You always seem so calm, Uncle Eo.”

Eobard manages a short laugh. Just so had his mother always seemed to _him_ , as a child. “Well, now you know the truth. I’m just good at faking it.”

Bruce is tapping at his phone. “The bridal party is here,” he says.

Eobard’s head turns immediately towards the door. _Barry._

“Oh no,” Bruce says firmly. He takes Eobard by the arm and steers him towards one of the folding chairs set up in the corner of the room.

“It’s only four o’clock,” Eobard says pathetically. “The wedding doesn’t start until five. What are we supposed to _do_ until then?”

He’s never been on this side of a wedding before; he hadn’t realized how long the gulf of time could suddenly seem. Intellectually he knows that all the members of the bridal and groom’s parties must arrive and be hidden away, and then the doors of the church will open to guests, who will file in in their turn and be decorously seated. All of these things take time, of course. But Eobard’s never before thought about what it must be like for that bride and groom, separated from each other and forced to wait with no distractions.

Bruce seats himself next to Eobard and uses one immaculately-shod foot to tug over a card table that has been pushed against a nearby wall. He reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and produces a deck of cards, which he shuffles expertly.

“Rummy?” he suggests.

* * *

Thankfully, Eobard is not left to occupy himself with Bruce Wayne and a deck of cards for the full hour. There’s tasks to complete, too. Mimi, the deacon, drops in to remind them about their order of entry and their standing positions during the ceremony. The celebrant also comes in to chat with them for a few minutes. And  _she_ brings paperwork.

“Marriage certificate,” she says, laying it down in front of Eobard and pointing at the three blank lines. “Groom, witness, head of house.”

Eobard’s hand shakes when he signs. That’s never happened to him before. And he has to sign twice, as both the groom and his own head of house. Bruce gives Eobard a sympathetic look when he signs on the witness line.

The left half of the certificate, the bride’s side, is already filled out. For the last time, _Barry Allen_ is written on a legal document. Eobard traces the signature with one trembling finger, until the celebrant gently eases the certificate away from him and tucks it away with the other necessary legal documents.

“Get ready,” she says, leaving Eobard with his thoughts and the support of his loved ones.

“Buck up, Eo. Think of this as a dry run for giving me away to Iris,” Eddie says cheerfully, taking up a position by the door and tugging his jacket to lie flat.

“Hah, hah,” Eobard says through dry lips.

“That doesn’t make any sense, we’ll be in the bridal party for _your_ wedding,” Meloni protests. She lines up behind Eddie. “How about this: I’ve never seen you fail at _anything_ , Uncle Eo. This isn’t going to be the first time.”

Eobard straightens his shoulders. “That’s not quite true,” he has to admit, “but I don’t want to fail at this.”

“So you won’t,” Bruce says easily, nudging Eobard into line and taking his own place. “You can achieve anything you can imagine. Just imagine your husband, and the universe will take care of the rest.”

Eobard imagines him. Eddie pulls the door open, just as the voluntary draws to a close. That means everyone is seated. Eobard draws a sharp breath, and the first notes of the processional begin to play.

“Here we go,” Eddie whispers.

* * *

Barry is. He is.

He is stunning.

Eobard is standing at the front of the church. Bruce, Meloni, and Eddie are to his left. The celebrant is to his right, hands out and ready to perform the ceremony. The pews are filled with guests, an elegantly dressed who’s who of Central City society. Everyone Eobard could think of who would confer consequence on Barry, so that his marriage would begin as strongly as possible.

The organist is performing a credible rendition of Pachelbel’s _Canon in D._ Iris has just reached the front of the church; she’s turning aside to take her place, a mirror of where Meloni is standing for Eobard. Tina is perhaps halfway down the aisle. They’d both emerged from the single open door at the rear of the church, walking unescorted except for the stylish bouquets each had held.

Then.

Then the second door is flung open, and there, framed in the newly widened entryway for all to see –

All the breath leaves Eobard in a rush.

Eobard has never seen Barry in white before. It doesn’t seem to be a color Barry wears often, though, in Barry’s defense, it _is_ winter – white is more of a summer color. Eobard _has_ imagined it – has imagined Barry in his wedding suit, in fact – imagined it a dozen times since Hartley and Cisco had first put the idea into Eobard’s head. But nothing his imagination has come up with has come anywhere close to the reality that is before him.

The sun is setting; what light it gives all comes from its filtering through stained glass windows, which cast patterns of blue and purple and green over the church. On Barry those lights seem unearthly, reflected clear and pure on the glowing purity of his suit. He’s in full white tie. The only color in his entire ensemble are the Reid rubies. They glitter from the few places a man may fashionably wear a jewel – at one ear, in Barry’s cufflinks, and as studs in a brilliant line on Barry’s dress shirt. They are adornment enough for any prince: their flashing fire challenges the stained-glass glitter. And Barry’s suit is a testament to Lisa Snart’s skill as a tailor. Never have his shoulders looked straighter, his waist narrower. Never have his cheekbones seemed so sharp. There will be a rumor tomorrow that there’s blue blood in the Allen line somewhere.

It’s not the thought of Barry’s bloodline that steals the breath from Eobard’s throat. When Emilia had spoken to Eobard on the subject of marriage, she had emphasized its more practical aspects. The importance of making a good alliance. Of ensuring that his future spouse would know how to behave in Society. Would be respectful, proper, responsible. Would uphold the Thawne name.

She hadn’t said anything about the overwhelming urge to touch. The desire to take Barry into his arms and never let Barry go. The wish to give Barry everything Barry might ever want, and hope that Barry finds some part of what Eobard has to give acceptable. The need to find a way to convince Barry to let Eobard remain at his side.

Eobard barely notices Joe West. The only thing that’s real is Barry, coming to stand before him, their hands ceremonially joined.

“Dearly beloved,” the celebrant begins. “We are gathered here today…”

* * *

There’s standing, sitting, and kneeling; it’s an Episcopal ceremony, after all. Eobard gets through it all on sheer rote muscle memory. Every time he looks at Barry – and he looks at Barry every chance he gets – both his brain and his heart stutter.

Then they’re standing before the altar again, and the celebrant hands Barry a microphone.

“Do you, Barry,” she begins.

Eobard’s bow tie feels too tight. He tries to swallow. He tries not to cry.

“To love and cherish,” she prompts, and Barry stutters.

Eobard’s throat goes dry. This is the part of the ceremony Eobard had had changed. He’d thought – Barry hadn’t written back, complaining – but Barry is staring at Eobard in wide-eyed surprise, and Eobard can’t escape the sinking feeling that something has gone terribly wrong.

The celebrant coughs discreetly. “To love and cherish,” she murmurs again, a little bit louder, to make sure Barry hears.

There’s a brief stir in the audience. Barry’s delay is beginning to be noticed. Barry’s hands tighten on Eobard’s, and Barry gives Eobard an extremely domestic look, promising reckoning later.

Eobard wilts. He’d just wanted Barry to be comfortable with his vows; he doesn’t see how that had been wrong, even though he knows, now, he should have waited to hear back from Barry –

“To love, cherish, and obey,” Barry says firmly, into the microphone where everyone can hear.

“Till death do you part,” the celebrant rushes on, visibly relieved that this wedding is back on track.

Barry repeats the rest, but Eobard barely hears him. Eobard has to be prompted twice to fumble the ring onto Barry’s finger and agree that, yes, yes, a thousand times yes, he will have Barry for his husband.

Later, under cover of a hymn, Barry leans in to Eobard’s side. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For trying to change the vows. But if you’ll have me as I am, I guess I’ll have you as you are, too. Blue blood and all.”

“I didn’t want you to promise anything you didn’t mean,” Eobard manages to whisper back, hoping that Barry can understand his sincerity, even as everyone around them warbles their way through another verse.

The look Barry gives Eobard is impish. “There will be limits,” he concedes, “but I can think of a few times that I will be _very_ glad to obey.”

The hymn ends before Eobard can respond to that. It’s probably a good thing. All the blood has left Eobard’s brain, and he can’t think of a single thing to say.

* * *

“You may now kiss the bride,” the celebrant beams.

Barry turns towards Eobard expectantly. Eobard takes a deep breath, does his best to block out his knowledge of the dozens of eyes on him, and goes in.

The meeting of their lips is chaste and proper, nothing like the more heated kisses they’ve exchanged in private. There’s a scattered round of polite applause. Immediately Eobard flinches back. His eyes fly up to Barry’s, already bracing for the hurt he expects to find there, but there’s only a soft understanding.

“Later,” Barry murmurs encouragingly. He reaches for Eobard’s arm, preparing to be escorted back down the aisle. Eobard’s husband, the ring glittering on his finger, ready to be paraded and shown off as befits a proper blueblood spouse.

Eobard pulls Barry in and kisses him again. He’s too well-bred to kiss Barry the way he _really_ wants to, but he’ll be damned if he leaves Barry with nothing better than that brush of lips for a wedding kiss.

Barry laughs in delighted surprise and kisses Eobard back firmly. He pulls back when Eobard does, and if judged on technicalities, the kiss has still been quite proper: brief, no tongue, no inappropriate touching. But Eobard is dizzily aware that several people are tittering in the back pews. Barry is blushing again, though, faintly. Eobard fixes on that – and Bruce’s discreet chuckle, as he nudges Eobard to start moving – as Eobard leads Barry back down the aisle and watches his beautiful, impossible husband beam at the crowd. Which beams back, even some of the crabbiest, most irascible curmudgeons present. There’s no resisting Barry. Eobard knows he’ll spend the rest of his life being overwhelmed by Barry.

They reach the nave again, turn to the side out of sight, and Eobard kisses Barry again. Or maybe Barry kisses Eobard. It doesn’t matter: Eobard’s husband is in his arms, and that’s where he stays, until Joe West and the photographer conspire to remind them of their pressing social duties.

* * *

They do take pictures outdoors, cold as it is. The tips of Barry’s nose and ears turn bright red, and his breath turns to mist when he smiles. His eyes seem even more brilliant in the fairy lights that festoon the grounds. Eobard is probably a photographer’s dream: he moves easily when guided, and stands stock still when not being directed to move, watching Barry raptly, liking it best when the photographer directs them to touch in some way.

There are a lot of pictures with Barry on Eobard’s arm. There are even a few where Eobard gets to hold Barry. Eobard likes those best. They’re outside, theoretically in a public place, but they seem wrapped in a private bubble somehow. The air is sharply cold and the night sky is clouded over. There’s snow in the forecast. Not that that’s keeping anyone else indoors. Cars go by on the avenues, including those of the wedding guests leaving the church and proceeding on to the cocktail hour at the reception site, but the carefully-planted trees block their lights and dull their noise to an indistinguishable background roar. Eobard drops a careful kiss on Barry’s lips as the camera flashes and watches Barry’s lashes flutter closed.

* * *

The warmth of the car is a shock after the cold of the outdoors. Barry immediately unwinds the long knit scarf – white, of course – that Lisa had made to coordinate with his wedding suit. There’s champagne sitting poured and ready in the drink holders on either side of the car. Barry frowns at the flutes.

“Can I just have water?” he asks.

“Bad luck to toast with water,” Eobard says softly.

Barry shakes his head and smiles. “I’m just thirsty, and I don’t want to drink too much.”

Eobard reaches into the minifridge under one of the seats and pulls out a bottle of water. Barry thanks him and drinks. Eobard watches the bob of Barry’s throat as he swallows.

Barry lowers the bottle of water and fiddles with putting the cap back on. “You changed the vows,” he says again.

“I didn’t want you to make any promises you weren’t comfortable with,” Eobard says. “I emailed you?” He makes it a question, because during the ceremony, Barry had seemed surprised.

“I haven’t looked at my email all day,” Barry confesses. “I was so nervous this morning, all I could do was pace.”

Eobard nods, cursing himself for not having also copied someone else – Iris, perhaps. Something else occurs to him and he adds, “Another email – Ms. Spivot will be present tonight, as you requested.”

Barry’s cheeks, already flushed with the rapid changes in temperature, darken further. Eobard hopes that’s not caused by Ms. Spivot herself. Or by anger or embarrassment. And indeed, Barry sets the bottle of water down carefully, and slides – even more carefully – across the seat to Eobard.

“It’ll be just the two of us, first,” he says softly, and puts his mouth up to be kissed.

* * *

“Just _look_ at you, oh my _God_ ,” Lisa Snart cries, rushing Barry through the entryway and into the small dressing-room reserved for the wedding party at the reception site. “What did you _do_ , take pictures while climbing trees? Look at your suit!” She’s tugging Barry’s jacket in place and shrieks. “ _What happened to this button?!”_

Barry sheepishly holds up one hand, revealing the button resting in his palm. Eobard clears his throat and turns his head to study the paintings on the wall of the dressing-room. He is of the opinion that that button had been attached improperly in the first place, though he knows better than to say that out loud.

Lisa snatches the button from Barry and devolves into heated mutterings as she marches off, returning moments later with a satchel. She sets it down on a nearby seat with more vim than strictly necessary and pulls out needle and thread. “Jacket,” she commands, snatching the garment from Barry as Barry meekly hands it over.

There’s a cough at Eobard’s shoulder; he turns his head to see one of Lisa’s assistants standing there with a diffident look on his face. “Dr. Thawne, if I may?”

Eobard suffers himself to be put back in order, exchanging amused glances with Barry as Lisa stabs her needle through his jacket with force and muttered imprecations. At one point Leonard Snart sticks his head into the room, sees the goings-on, smirks, and withdraws again. Eobard resigns himself to the realization that the Snart siblings are both very aware of what had just gone on in the limousine.

“Did Iris and everyone get here okay?” Barry asks, as Lisa finishes reattaching the button and chivvies Barry to his feet to be put back together. The wedding party had lingered for the first few formal photos, then proceeded on to the cocktail hour, where they will have been keeping the rest of the guests entertained.

“Yes, they’re fine,” Lisa sighs, becoming calmer with every twitch and adjustment of Barry’s clothes. Within minutes Barry looks immaculate, as put-together and perfect as if he had never indulged in a round of heavy petting with his new husband in the back of a car. “None of _them_ got mauled by a bobcat on their way over, of course, though there was a vexing issue with the beading on Ms. West’s dress… nothing I couldn’t handle, of course.” Lisa steps back, head to one side, and finally pronounces Barry acceptable. “ _Do_ try to watch out for marauding animals on the journey from here to the ballroom,” she adds, with an acerbic glance towards Eobard.

“Ms. Snart, as always, you are a miracle worker.” Eobard gives her a courtly bow. Lisa, he well knows, appreciates appreciation nearly as much as she appreciates receiving her princely salary on time and via direct deposit. “Now that Barry has joined my family, I see that we will have to increase your contract.”

“Oh, flattery, is it?” Lisa glances at Eobard, but relaxes into a smile. “Well, it’s always a pleasure to work for the Thawne family. I _may_ have some additional availability.”

“We must discuss it,” Eobard tells her, meaning it sincerely. Barry will need a personal tailor of his own, and Lisa Snart is the best in the business, unfortunate tendency towards archness notwithstanding. “But for the moment, my husband – ” Eobard stops, wide-eyed.

“First time saying it out loud?” Lisa’s smile isn’t arch now; it’s just indulgent. “Yes, I believe you and your husband are expected elsewhere. Leave off, Roger.” The assistant still brushing at Eobard’s coat steps back, embarrassed. “Let Dr. and Mr. Thawne go, now.”

Barry’s the one to startle at this construction, looking at Eobard with wide eyes. _Mr. Thawne,_ his lips shape.

Eobard reaches for him – not to do what he’d really like to do in this instance, but just to settle Barry’s arm on his. Somehow, still, even that simple touch makes Eobard feel warm, all the way to his toes.

Lenard Snart sticks his head back in the room, displaying that impeccable sense of timing that makes him the premier event organizer in Central City. “And here we go!” he says.

* * *

The lights in the ballroom are bright. The sound system is excellent – everyone had heard it, quite clearly, when Bruce Wayne had announced the arrival, for the first time in public, of  _Dr. and Mr. Thawne._

Barry had clutched at Eobard’s arm, but his smile hadn’t wavered an inch, and he’d bestowed it impartially on everyone who had risen and greeted them with polite applause. Eobard had escorted Barry at a decorous pace to his seat at the head table, and the rest of the wedding party had immediately closed ranks around them. Barry had relaxed, and the well-trained staff had immediately begun to carry the first course around.

Neither Barry nor Eobard eat much. Food comes and goes, and so do a steady stream of well-wishers. Between courses, Eobard escorts Barry around the room, as one table at a time they pause to greet and speak with all of their guests. To Eobard’s relief, everyone is polite, though warmth is missing from several attendees’ ceremonially-offered blessings. Most of the guests are friends or allies, but there are those whom _not_ inviting would have been an insult. And those people, in turn, had by and large attended, omitting thereby the equivalent insult of declining the invitation. The few exceptions had had well-supported reasons for sending their regrets, all of which had passed the test of being printed in the Society pages. No one has chosen to snub the new couple outright. But there is a chill at certain tables that say that Eobard’s foray into marriage is not being met with unqualified approval.

The mayor, in particular, is barely civil. Her wife treats Barry’s hand like a dead fish. Eobard’s eyes narrow, and he fails to extend his hopes that she will win another term in next year’s coming election.

“She always did seem like a pompous jackass on TV,” Barry murmurs to Eobard when they’re back at their table, the next course already handing around. “Who’s running against her?”

“In the general? No one of consequence.” Central City’s politics are considerably colder-blooded than that. Eobard sips his wine, smiling impartially around the room. “I do believe she may be shortly be facing a primary challenge, however.” Maia’s been on the City Council for three terms; she’s eligible for the mayoralty. Eobard had previously counseled her to spend another term on the Council and wait to make her run until next cycle, when the incumbent will be unable to run again, due to term limits. Eobard finds himself rethinking this position, however.

“How interesting,” Barry says in like tone. “I will be sure to consider my vote carefully.”

The look Barry gives Eobard is masterful, combining blueblood austerity with a mischief that’s uniquely Barry. Eobard wants to kiss him, and only Bruce’s well-timed elbow in Eobard’s ribs prevents it. Barry hides a smirk behind his wine-glass and turns to converse with Tina.

* * *

The roast is removed, the salad course begins carrying around, and the band tunes their instruments. Eobard sets his napkin down and makes sure Barry is doing the same. Their guests will enjoy the remaining courses at their leisure, but it’s time for the two of them to return to their primary obligation for the evening: being on display.

There’s no announcement. None is necessary. Everyone understands quite well what is happening as the band begins to play and Eobard leads Barry out onto the dance floor.

The waltz they’ve chosen is simple but classic. Barry had never received training in ballroom dance, so the simplicity had been a virtue. Eobard knows Barry has been drilling his steps in every spare minute, with whomever he can convince to play the lead to him – mainly Iris, from what Eobard hears. Despite this practice, Barry still starts out stiff in Eobard’s arms. Eobard catches his eye and dares to smile at him. Barry smiles back, and relaxes, all of a sudden.

Speaking during the dance is not done, of course. It leaves the two of them little to do but move about the dance floor in elegant rhythm and lose themselves to the music and the pleasure of each others’ company. Barry’s hand is warm in Eobard’s. Eobard’s arm is snug around Barry’s waist. They’re quite close together. Once upon a time, Eobard recalls, the waltz had been considered scandalous. He begins to understand how this could have been, as he twirls Barry carefully through their few planned flourishes and feels the moments when they come together. The music, the rhythm, the press of their bodies – they’re beautifully and expensively dressed, in a setting stiff with tradition and formality, but Eobard still feels barely one step removed from a rutting savage.

They turn again. Barry’s eyes flick up to meet Eobard’s. Eobard sees the same desire Eobard feels reflected there, magnifying between them until Eobard is hot and dizzy.

The music stops. Dimly Eobard registers that the dance has come to an end. More polite applause rings in his ears. Somehow Eobard makes himself step back, take Barry’s arm again, and return to their seats.

Bruce nudges his cup of iced sherbet into Eobard’s view, signaling the waiter discreetly for another one for himself. “Here,” Bruce whispers. “You look like you need this.”

“Thank you,” Eobard manages. Next to him, under the table where the tablecloth hides all sins, Barry’s hand is resting on Eobard’s thigh. It burns Eobard even through the thick cloth of his wedding suit, and Eobard swallows hard.

Tina leans over, under the pretense of whispering in Barry’s ear. “Not long until the wedding night,” she says, amused, for both of them to hear. “You can wait.”

“I am not convinced of that,” Barry breathes, reaching for a glass of iced water.

* * *

Other couples proceed to the dance floor, and it’s well occupied for a time, but a general pause comes after the first several airs are played. There’s a telltale disturbance towards the back of the hall, and a parting occurs in the crowd as the wedding cake is wheeled forwards.

Barry notices it before Eobard. Eobard is deep in conversation with Raymond Palmer, who is considering an expansion of Palmer Tech’s science divisions into Starling City and wants to know if Eobard is interested in a joint venture. Barry has to touches Eobard’s hand to get his attention. Ray looks over as well and nods to himself.

“We’ll talk about this more later?” Ray suggests.

“Yes, please – call anytime.” Eobard gives Ray a smile, then rises, extending a hand to Barry.

The main cake is four tiers, primarily white, with burgundy and gold accents. It’s primarily for show and for ceremonial cutting. The wedding party and select honored guests will be served slices from this cake; the remainder of the attendees will have cake brought out from the back, where several large sheets with similar icing are waiting to supply the show cake’s volume deficits.

The head waiter ceremonially presents Eobard with the wedge-shaped cake server. Eobard accepts it and turns to Barry. Barry lays his hand over Eobard’s. The photographer scurries in close, and they make the first cut together.

The head waiter swoops in and takes the serving utensil. A moment later he presents Eobard with a plate of cake. Eobard picks up the golden fork, cuts a bite, and holds a bite to Barry’s lips.

Barry leans forward and takes it delicately. The bite isn’t large; he barely has to chew before he can swallow. The tip of his tongue darts out to catch a crumb. Eobard watches, entranced.

The plate changes hands. Barry repeats the process of cutting a small piece and offering it to Eobard. Eobard accepts it in his turn, feeling unaccountably solemn. It’s just a piece of cake, but the symbolism, which he’s never quite understood before, is suddenly clear to him. They’ll each rely on each other to meet their needs, and accept anything the other has to give them. Sweet, or otherwise.

Barry hands the plate off to the waiter and accepts Eobard’s arm again. They share a private smile as the cake is wheeled away.

“Delicious,” Barry says meaningfully.

* * *

There’s more conversation with their guests after that. Easier conversations. Longtime friends and allies of the West families, dressed in their best, who offer earnest good wishes. Eobard is surprised but glad to see there’s none of the avarice he might have dreaded. The Wests’ friends are pleased that Barry has married high, but seem innocent of the consideration that it might benefit themselves, as well. Eobard commits names and faces to memory regardless. Good people are good people, wherever they are to be found, and he always prefers to deal with good people.

Friends and allies of the Thawne family are more restrained, but Eobard knows how to see the warmth behind the polite reserve. Eobard’s father’s brother tells Eobard that Ethan would have been proud of him, leaving Eobard blinking back unaccustomed moisture. He then compliments Barry on the rubies, which prompts a shared smile, and passes along a business card destined for Ms. West. Barry’s thanks are a trifle more enthusiastic than the setting allows, but their sincerity is unmistakable, and Britt doesn’t seem to take offense.

Several Rathaways are present, all of whom behave extremely well under Hartley’s gimlet eye. Hartley advances several steps out onto the dance floor to meet Eobard and Barry when they approach, and makes sure to shake both of their hands where as many people as possible will see. Cisco, at Hartley’s side, refrains from hugging anyone, but his enthusiasm is a match for Barry’s. Eobard catches Hartley’s eye and exchanges a tiny smile with him. No one will ever mistake their husbands for bluebloods born, but Eobard thinks neither of them would ever want to see that change.

After that it becomes a blur. Eobard knows he should be tracking names and faces, but his mind shuts down abruptly, and he finds himself on autopilot, holding a glass of champagne and smiling and saying the same few polite nothings over and over again. Barry, on his arm, seems scarcely to be doing better. It’s been a long day. And there’s a long night ahead of them.

Tina and Bruce rescue them at length from the well-wishes of Elsa Snow, cutting in with smooth expertise and escorting the couple back away from the mass of guests. “It’s almost time for your exit,” Tina murmurs. “I’ve signaled Mr. Snart, and Ms. Snart has your coats and such ready in the dressing-room.”

“Thank God,” Barry says on a long exhale. He’s almost stumbling, only Eobard’s support keeping him upright. Eobard likes being relied on, but as he’s not entirely sure how he’s remaining vertical himself, it’s probably for the best if that situation doesn’t continue.

“I hope you’ve got _something_ left in the tank,” Tina says, glancing at Eobard. “It’s nearly ten o’clock; you’ve only got until midnight.”

The warm glow Eobard has been floating in diminishes somewhat at this stark reminder that there’s a timetable attached to the rest of the evening. He tries to glare at Tina, but it falls flat.

“Coffee,” Bruce says, indicating the steaming cups at their table. Eobard sits gratefully and reaches for his, drinking as fast as is compatible with good manners. Barry does the same. A discreet waiter refills both of their cups and then vanishes.

“Speak when you’re ready,” Tina says. “The dancing will continue for another hour, but you two need to get on the road.”

Tina’s right, Eobard knows it. It’s not quite half an hour to his house – to _their_ house – and then he and Barry must be intimate, and Ms. Spivot must examine Barry, all before midnight.

Eobard drinks the second cup of coffee more slowly but no less gratefully. He sets it down and checks on Barry. Barry gives him a nod. His own cup is empty, and he meets Eobard’s gaze resolutely and with a hint of eagerness.

 _You can achieve anything you can imagine,_ Eobard remembers Bruce saying. _So just imagine your husband…_

Eobard doesn’t have to imagine him. Eobard’s husband is right here, before him, waiting with quiet trust for Eobard’s word.

Eobard reaches out his hand. Barry puts his in it, immediately, without question or hesitation.

“Okay,” Eobard says, gaze never wavering. “Here we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I hope this chapter was worth putting up with the hiatus for :) Thanks to everyone who sent me good vacation wishes or otherwise left me messages of cheer and support during the break!
> 
> I'm still somewhat behind on replying to comments, etcetera; sorry! Please be patient with me a little while longer. I made getting this chapter up my first priority ;)
> 
> UPDATE: [Coco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox) [(tumblr)](http://there-goes-all-the-cotton-candy.tumblr.com/) made some amazing [aesthetics](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/149909791545/there-goes-all-the-cotton-candy) for this chapter! Just look at this beauty :) Thank you so much!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [As Feferi put it](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/74187532): "Aww, what an adorable wedding... :)
> 
> ...AND NOW THEY'RE GONNA BANG HUEHUEHUE. 8D"

The car brings them home in the dead darkness of a winter night. The sky is heavily clouded still. It isn’t yet snowing, but the taste of the air tells Eobard it’s only a matter of time.

Eobard’s housekeeper is dutifully on the alert and opens the door the moment they pull to a halt in the drive. It’s only a short step from the car to the house, too quick for the cold to be anything more than a novelty. There’s a breathless moment where outerwear is doffed. Barry turns to look for a coat closet that isn’t there; Eobard’s valet coughs, and Barry turns towards him, surprised. A moment later Barry has been efficiently divested of everything he’s holding and he and Eobard are alone in the entryway again.

“That will take some getting used to,” Barry says.

Eobard nods. “If you want anything changed, just say so,” he says. “My habits are based on years of living alone. They probably won’t suit married life.”

Barry shivers. “Married life,” he echoes, putting quite a different construction on the words.

Eobard leads Barry back towards the master suites. A light is burning in the living room; Ms. Spivot looks up from a book as they go by. Eobard spares a moment to assure himself that she’s being looked after in comfort. The fireplace is lit, there’s a warm drink on the table at her elbow, and a blanket is tucked around her feet. There are no telltale remains from a meal – the servants are far too efficient – but Eobard has no doubt that she’s been well fed.

“Good evening,” Eobard greets her.

“Thanks for being here,” Barry says to her, awkward but sincere.

Ms. Spivot combines a nod of acknowledgement with a gesture that says _the debt is forgotten._ “I’ll see you later tonight,” she says diplomatically.

There’s a clock on the wall in the living room. Eobard looks. 10:41P.M.

“Later,” Eobard agrees, urging Barry onwards.

At the doors to their chambers, Eobard passes his for the moment and leads Barry into his rooms. “I hope everything’s to your liking,” he says. “This is your dressing-room – just hang up everything as best as you can; one of Lisa’s assistants will come by tomorrow and take it off for cleaning. When you’re ready…” Eobard indicates the door that links Barry’s suite to Eobard’s own.

Barry is standing in the middle of the bedroom, spinning in a slow circle. “I didn’t think real people really lived like this anymore,” he breathes.

Eobard shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “If you don’t like it – ” he begins.

“Hush.” Barry comes over and kisses Eobard, lingering and slow. “You should stop assuming that my surprise automatically comes with disapproval.”

“I’ll try,” Eobard murmurs, distracted by Barry’s lips.

Contact is regrettably broken when Barry gives Eobard a gentle nudge towards the connecting door and begins to move towards his dressing room. “I’ll only be a moment,” he says. “You should get ready, too.” Barry gives Eobard a look over his shoulder that he _must_ have practiced; it makes Eobard’s throat go dry and his pants go tight.

“Yes,” Eobard manages, retreating through the door before he embarrasses himself further. He closes the connecting door between them. Then, for good measure, he closes the door of his dressing-room, too. The two planks of wood are not noticeably effective at dampening Eobard’s awareness of Barry’s presence.

He gets out of his wedding suit with about as much deliberation as he’d gotten into it, which is to say, very little. Eobard operates mostly on muscle memory and does it as rapidly as possible. He does take the time to hang each piece up, though. That’s a piece of childhood conditioning that’s unlikely to ever go away. Eobard takes his dressing-gown from its hook and shrugs it on before checking himself in the mirror to make sure he’s forgotten nothing embarrassing. Which he hasn’t, but: after a moment of thought, Eobard tugs the signet ring back off his finger and tucks it away next to his cufflinks. That leaves his fingers bare except for his wedding ring. That’s the only signifier of power Eobard wants in bed with his new husband tonight.

Eobard emerges out into his room and stops almost dead, breath catching in his throat. Barry looks up from where he’s curled against Eobard’s pillow and smiles. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Eobard whispers. Barry hasn’t bothered with a dressing-gown: he’s enticingly, gorgeously naked. The bed had been turned down before they’d gotten home, and the comforters are still folded neatly against the foot, but Barry has tugged the sheet up just enough for modesty – or, more accurately, for temptation. It covers his long legs up to the jut of his hip-bones. And nothing else.

There’s a dusting of hair leading up from the line of that sheet to Barry’s navel, paler than the hair on Barry’s head and just begging to be investigated. Then there are the freckles. No single constellation of them gather. Instead they’re scattered enticingly, one here and two there, in seemingly random places across Barry’s otherwise-smooth skin: two high up on his forearm, a handful across his chest, one dimpling a nicely defined abdomen. Eobard is struck with the urge to search them out. Find the ones that might still be hidden. To find all of Barry’s secrets, and keep them on Barry’s behalf.

The sheet leaves no doubt that Barry’s blush is a full-body one. “Do I please?” Barry asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Very much,” Eobard tells him fervently. He wants to cover Barry with his own body. He wants to explore. To play, to taste, to tease. He wants to kiss every inch of Barry’s skin and find out how Barry reacts when Eobard nips love-bites into tender places.

There’s a soft chiming from behind Eobard. The clock in the dressing-room announces eleven o’clock.

Barry looks down. “Later,” he says.

“Later,” Eobard repeats, a promise and an agreement.

He leaves his dressing-gown in a puddle on the floor, all his old lessons in modesty forgotten in the brilliance of Barry’s smile as Eobard joins him in their marriage bed. There’s time enough to kiss, and Eobard takes it. At first he makes sure Barry has equal leverage, and they’re on their sides, holding each other, stealing each others’ breath in turn and gasping when lack of air forces them to briefly part. But soon enough Barry is pulling on Eobard’s shoulders.

“Please,” he whispers. “I like – I’d like – ” He succeeds in rolling Eobard on top of him and gasps, arching happily into Eobard’s greater weight and shivering when Eobard isn’t moved. “Hold me down,” Barry whispers, “keep me anchored, keep me real.”

Eobard groans. There’s no resisting that plea, especially when Barry’s desires dovetail so neatly with Eobard’s own. Eobard wants to possess. To own. No: he wants to feel secure of Barry’s presence, Barry’s affection. And while his intellect might understand there are more to those things than simple ownership, his hindbrain is extremely well satisfied to have Barry so effectually captured.

He’d laugh at himself, but the way Barry’s eyes darken and his body goes pliant steal any impulse to humor. Faced with such a sight Eobard can only kiss his husband again. It’s entirely different this time. Barry melts, throwing his arms around Eobard’s neck and arching again, seemingly for the sheer pleasure of finding Eobard immovable. Barry’s kisses become needy and sweet, eager yet receptive. They draw Eobard onward to kiss deeper, chasing that willingness only to find that it seemingly has no end.

Barry gasps for air and lets his head fall back. “Please,” he whimpers.

Eobard doesn’t know precisely for what Barry is asking. It will take many more meetings before he can read Barry as expertly in bed as he longs to. But Eobard can guess, and judging by Barry’s reaction when Eobard begins to devote his attentions to the sensitive skin of neck and collar-bone, Eobard’s guesses are pretty close to the mark. Eobard fights a brief losing battle against himself to avoid leaving any marks that will be visible above the collar. His self-control has utterly deserted him, and no amount of makeup will hide the love-bite he sucks just below Barry’s jaw, which his hindbrain regards in savage satisfaction.

“Mine,” Eobard murmurs. He’s not aware he’s spoken aloud until Barry shudders and moans.

“Yes, yes,” he cries, “ _Please_ , Eobard – ”

The motion of Barry’s hands, trying to urge Eobard lower, are too uncoordinated to be effective. Eobard follows their wish regardless. He learns the taste of freckles under his lips and dips his tongue into the various hollows and dimples of Barry’s body. He’s never had a lover so responsive: every touch Eobard gives him seems to ratchet Barry’s desire higher, and even before Eobard reaches the teasing sheet and lowers it, Barry seems reduced to a writhing mass of pleasure.

Eobard drinks in the sight of his husband greedily. The same fine, pale hair that had led down from Barry’s navel culminates in a well-groomed thatch just above his groin. Barry is pleasingly hard already, even though all of Eobard’s attentions have been centered above his waist. His cock is perhaps half an inch shorter in length than Eobard, but probably somewhat thicker. Eobard’s mouth waters. Regretfully, he pushes that aside. Now is not the time. He does drop a kiss on the twitching, weeping tip, a promise for later, and perhaps the tiniest tease.

Then he comes to his knees and reaches for the supplies already cached in the top drawer of his bedside table. Beneath it there’s another, larger drawer, and it has a sliding panel. It’s not exactly hidden, but it’s discreet. Eobard ignores it. The sort of things Eobard keeps there are not for tonight. Though maybe – he hopes – they could be for the future.

All of which ties back in to a conversation they need to have. And they will need to have it multiple times, because tonight is not long enough for anywhere near its necessary breadth and depth. Tonight they are constrained by necessity. Tonight Eobard only asks, as he pulls out the lubricant and leaves the condoms behind: “How far have you gone in the past?”

There had been background checks, of course. The one for Barry’s employment hadn’t covered his relationship history, but the one for their marriage contract had. Eobard knows that Barry has had two serious relationships in the past. One, with a young Park lady, had progressed far enough that discreet inquiries had been made by both sides. There had been differences in the families’ positions, but nothing that had seemed insurmountable; the end of the relationship seems to have come from the couple themselves deciding to part. Still, having come that close to marriage, they may have indulged themselves in full intimacy. Barry’s other relationship had been with a somewhat older gentleman, surnamed Jordan, a member of the Air Force. Then-Captain Jordan had been stationed at Ferris AFB at the time. The relationship, though apparently taken seriously by both parties, had never yielded inquiries of the sort Barry’s relationship with Ms. Park had done. It had ended seemingly without a murmur when the newly promoted Major Jordan had left for a new position in Coast City. However, the lack of need to worry about accidentally conceiving a child makes it almost more likely that Barry had been intimate with Captain Jordan than with Ms. Park.

Beyond that, Barry’s romantic record is sparse. Knowing what Eobard knows of Barry, he doubts any of Barry’s shorter relationships had contained much in the way of physical intimacy. Barry is too responsible – and the Wests’ position too precarious – to risk either a love-child or the need to contract a hasty marriage.

Barry hasn’t answered the question yet. Eobard looks up, and sees his husband squirming in – embarrassment?

“It’s all right, whatever it is,” Eobard says, at a loss to account for this unexpected lapse in Barry’s usual self-possession. He rests a comforting hand on Barry’s hip and smiles encouragingly. “I have no expectations of you.”

Barry groans and flings an arm over his eyes. “Linda and I petted a lot,” he says, “but I didn’t want to risk – you know – so we just, uh.”

“Oral sex,” Eobard supplies.

“Yeah. Uh. And after we didn’t, uh, get over the hump, I kind of didn’t want to? With anyone else.” After a moment, Barry adds, “I know, I know, but – ”

“What about Captain Jordan?” Eobard asks, in some surprise.

Barry pinks. “He actually didn’t want to? It wasn’t his thing. We enjoyed hanging out, and Hal liked kissing just fine, but the rest of it wasn’t for him.” Barry lowers his arm from his face, looking up at Eobard through slightly squashed lashes. “We were never going to get married, so it didn’t matter that we wanted different things. I liked what we had while we had it.”

“Of course,” Eobard murmurs in understanding, while his mind races. “So you mean to tell me that you’ve never – ”

“As far as getting fucked goes, I’m a virgin,” Barry blurts out. He hurries on, “Okay, please don’t be mad. I know I should have told you earlier. But I kept waiting for it to be the right moment and I kind of forgot we only had a week.”

Eobard swallows. When he can speak again, he manages to say, in what he hopes is a convincing tone, “The _last_ thing I am feeling right now is anger.”

Barry begins to look hopeful. “Yeah?” He glances away, fiddling with the sheet. “I mean. You must have a lot of experience. Maybe I’ll be a little disappointing.”

“Never,” Eobard says with complete faith. He drops the lubricant in favor of taking Barry’s face in his hands and kissing Barry again. He’d never thought himself such a Neanderthal. First the mere act of waltzing with Barry had made Eobard want to have him right there. And now the news that Eobard will be Barry’s first, at least when it comes to the final intimacy, sends lightning crackling through Eobard’s veins in a way he hasn’t felt since he’d been a young man himself.

“Okay then,” Barry gasps, when Eobard finally lets him go. He looks dazed; he touches his lips, eyes widening. “Sounds good to me.”

Eobard takes a moment to appreciate the sight. The sheet hides nothing any longer: all of Barry is exposed to Eobard’s eyes, and Eobard finds him impossibly beautiful, from the hair on his head to the freckles dusting one ankle. Even more beautiful is the light that shines from within. Barry’s courage and loyalty are present even here. He is inexperienced, but he’s not afraid. He clearly believes Eobard will take care of him. And Eobard takes fire from that belief, bound and determined not to fall short of Barry’s faith in him as a husband and lover.

“Lie back,” Eobard says impulsively. “Let me do everything for you.”

Barry’s eyes darken. “Should I try not to move?” he asks transparently, laying back and wiggling a little – perhaps to get comfortable, or perhaps to illustrate his point.

“If I tell you not to, you won’t, will you?” Eobard asks, testing.

Barry gives a little gasp and stills. “Not an inch,” he swears.

That deserves a reward; Eobard kisses Barry again, not on the lips this time, but just under his chin, and Barry shivers. “We must be quick this time,” Eobard says regretfully, “so I won’t ask anything of you that you may not be able to give. Try your best, that’s all I want.”

“I will,” Barry breathes.

Eobard picks up the lubricant again and moves to kneel between Barry’s legs. Barry looks torn for a moment between two sets of conflicting desires; finally he spreads his knees slightly, almost a suggestion. Eobard does the rest, maneuvering Barry into the position that will be most comfortable for him, and giving each limb a pat as he lets go, to tell it to be still. Barry submits to it all, only tugging a second pillow under his head, so that he can watch as Eobard pops the cap of the lubricant and squeezes some out.

He refuses to rush this part, fingering Barry open as if they have all the time in the world. He blocks out his awareness of the clock on the wall or his knowledge that someone will be waiting just outside the door, ready to bring Ms. Spivot in at Eobard’s knock. All of Eobard is focused on Barry as he makes his husband ready.

“How does it feel?” he asks. He’s watching his fingers disappear inside Barry’s body, mesmerized by the simplicity of the action that nevertheless feels profound.

“Feels good,” Barry murmurs. He sounds almost sleepy; Eobard looks up, to find that although Barry’s indeed relaxed and droopy-eyed, the expression on his face is not at all tired. Eobard needn’t have looked so high for reassurance, either. Barry’s cock is hard, bumping against his pelvis when Eobard does something to make Barry twitch, leaving a trail of sticky fluid. Eobard leans over thoughtfully and licks at the tip, even as he slides a second finger inside his husband.

“Oh, oh God…” Barry moans, then seems almost startled by the sound of his own voice. “I – do you want me to be quiet?” he asks breathlessly.

“On no account,” Eobard assures him. He quite likes the sound of Barry’s moan. He twists his fingers thoughtfully, and manages to elicit another as he rubs past the small nub that makes Barry jump and writhe.

Eobard hesitates for a moment, and breaks his own resolution of focusing entirely on Barry to glance briefly at the clock. If there’s time, he’d love to make Barry come with his mouth on Barry’s cock and his fingers in Barry’s ass…

There isn’t. Regretfully Eobard shelves his latent desires for another time. He pulls his fingers out instead, soothing Barry’s bereft whine with a kiss to the soft skin of Barry’s inner thigh, and applies more lubricant.

“Three fingers now,” Eobard says. “Then you’ll be ready for me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Barry whispers.

Eobard takes his time with the third finger. This is a stretch that will probably be beyond anything Barry’s done for himself, playing solo, unless Barry has a taste for large dildos that he hasn’t mentioned. He might. There is much Eobard doesn’t know yet, and so little time to ask. Perhaps they should have made more time to talk before this. Eobard ought to have put aside his reserve, at least long enough to talk on this subject. It hadn’t occurred to him. Such matters are to be spoken of in the bedchamber, and nowhere else. At least, so he’d always been taught. Eobard wishes now that he’d learned a different, better lesson. Or that he’d been able to devise a solution to free Barry from Cobalt that had let them put off this first intimacy until they could grow better acquainted with each other’s desires.

But there’s nothing to do now but go forward. At least Eobard need have no doubt of Barry’s eagerness: despite his earlier resolution not to move, Barry has planted his feet firmly into the mattress, and he’s arching up into Eobard’s ministrations. He’s moaning again in unmistakable enthusiasm. Eobard adds the third finger as gently as he knows how, his free hand making amends for the stretch with slow, teasing caresses to Barry’s straining cock and full balls.

Even that touch almost proves to be too much. Barry is panting like he’s running a race. “Please,” Barry gasps. One arm flails, trying to reach Eobard. Barry’s wedding ring catches the light and glimmers brilliant scarlet and gold. “Please, Eobard – want you, please. Want it with you in me.”

Eobard pulls back immediately. He has excellent manners, and far be it from him to deny a request so pleasingly voiced.

“Hand me another pillow,” Eobard commands. Barry, pupils wide enough to almost swallow the green of his eyes entirely, obeys. “Now lift – yes.” Eobard gets the pillow wedged securely beneath Barry, lifting Barry up for Eobard. Eobard reaches for the lubricant again, then pauses.

“It may hurt a little at first,” he says regretfully. “It often does, even with the best intentions. Breathe, and bear down, and it will help.”

“All right,” Barry says with simple trust.

Eobard has to close his eyes briefly. He moves upwards on the bed, kissing Barry with his heart on his lips. “I love you,” he says helplessly.

Barry looks at him with wide eyes, then, shockingly, starts to cry.

“Barry?” Eobard freezes. What has he done wrong? How could things have devolved so abruptly?

Barry shakes his head. “You haven’t said it before,” he says.

“I – surely, I – ”

Eobard closes his mouth with an effort. He _hasn’t_. He’d spent so long trying to make sure that Barry wouldn’t have to deal with Eobard’s awkward and inconvenient emotions for him that, once matters had changed between them and Eobard had come to understand that his feelings would be welcomed – would even be returned – he hadn’t –

“I love you, Barry Allen,” Eobard says clearly.

Barry shakes his head. His tears are vanishing as quickly as he’d come; he even laughs at Eobard, though there are still a few droplets caught in his lashes, sparkling as if they would compete with the rubies on Barry’s finger. “Barry Thawne,” he corrects. “Now please, Eobard, finish what you started?”

It takes a few extra tries before Eobard can draw a breath. When he does, he uses it to kiss Barry again. Then he nods, obedient to his husband’s wish and the press of time both, and takes up the lubricant again.

His own arousal is a foregone conclusion. Which is not to say that Eobard wouldn’t enjoy his husband’s touch, but there isn’t time; Eobard has spent all of the available time on Barry, and regrets it not at all. The slide of his own palm on heated flesh as he slicks his cock is quite nearly too much regardless. Eobard firms up his control and does the job thoroughly anyway, then returns to his position between Barry’s legs.

“Breathe,” Eobard warns, and, at Barry’s nod, says again, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Barry whispers back.

Eobard nudges in, leaning over Barry with his weight supported on one hand, using the other to help spread Barry wide open. He watches his cock disappearing between Barry’s pale cheeks with a sense of suspended disbelief. Despite all evidence to the contrary – their acquaintance, their wedding, Barry’s words of love – it seems almost impossible that this should really be happening.

Then Barry cries out, hips bucking – not to get away, but to take more of Eobard in – and reality snaps back into place.

Eobard’s not a young man, and there will be downsides of that in their conjugal bed, but there are advantages too, and chief among them is patience. Eobard can restrain the urge to fuck deep and hard, chasing his own pleasure at Barry’s expense. He can keep his entry slow and controlled, and even when he’s achieved full penetration, he can wait, sheathed but motionless, for Barry to adjust.

Barry has taken Eobard well, but after Eobard is fully seated he remains still for long moments, eyes closed, breath coming fast. He flutters his hands at Eobard when Eobard nudges him, and at first only hums distractedly when Eobard calls his name.

“Hush,” Barry says, the second time Eobard calls to him. “I’m savoring the moment.”

This proof of Barry’s well-being warms Eobard, but… “Barry,” Eobard says a third time.

“I know.” Barry opens his eyes and smiles, and Eobard takes heart: there’s only the barest hint of sadness in his eyes, and a great deal more happiness and love. “All right. Go on.”

Eobard does. He begins with short thrusts, almost more of a rocking motion, feeling Barry relax and loosen more around him. As Barry does, Eobard lengthens his thrusts, until he feels himself moving almost without friction.

Barry moans and reaches up to grasp the headboard, using it as leverage to thrust back against Eobard. Eobard judges the moment right and shifts his weight, supporting himself entirely on a single forearm and getting his other hand between them to wrap around Barry’s straining length.

Ah, to be young. Barry tenses, gasps, and all but explodes in Eobard’s hand. His cock pulses in Eobard’s palm, and semen fountains out, spreading warm and thick, sliding through Eobard’s fingers.

Barry shakes through it, hips bucking as Eobard works him gently, then seems to melt into the bed. Eobard takes his as his cue. Deliberately he relaxes his own control, loosening the restraints he’d set on himself. It takes him only three more strokes to find his own completion. Truth be told, Eobard could probably have come in his dressing-gown the moment he’d stepped into his bedroom to find Barry waiting for him, naked except for that sheet. Every moment of restraint after that has been the result of years of practice and the blessing of age. There’s just no resisting Barry.

The feeling of it – coming inside Barry – is indescribable. Eobard tries to commit it to memory, but it’s impossible: it’s too much, overwhelming every sense, blazing through him and leaving him without so much as a wisp to cling to. The only way to know what it had been like will be to do it again. And again. And again.

“Eobard,” Barry is murmuring. “Come here, please.”

Eobard groans, stirring tired, aching limbs into action. He manages to extract himself from Barry – Barry hisses, no doubt sore – and means to immediately reach for the tissues, but is betrayed by his own weakness. He collapses next to Barry, who snuffles happily and curls into Eobard.

“Jus’ a minute?” Barry says hopefully. “We have time.”

Eobard wraps his arms around Barry. “Just a minute,” he agrees.

* * *

They take five minutes – five carefully metered minutes, ticked off by the clock that Eobard can see clearly from his position. Barry, head buried in Eobard’s shoulder, sees none of it. Eobard is glad. Barry had asked Eobard to make him forget, on their wedding night. Eobard isn’t sure how well he’s succeeded – he seems to recall several instances where they had both been all too aware of their timetable – but the rapidly cooling evidence testifies that Eobard has certainly brought his husband pleasure. He takes comfort in that, and Barry’s trusting lassitude in Eobard’s arms.

When the clock reaches quarter till midnight, Eobard regretfully stirs. “It’s time,” he says to his husband.

Barry opens his eyes. “Yes,” he says quietly.

Eobard sits up and reaches for a tissue – for his hand, not for Barry. On any other day he would go to the bathroom for a washcloth and clean his lover tenderly, but today the residue of passion must be left to turn into evidence. Eobard _can_ bring Barry Eobard’s discarded dressing-gown, which Barry wraps around himself with a smile that wobbles but holds.

A brief knock on the door produces an answering acknowledgement on the far side and the sound of retreating feet. Eobard looks down at himself and realizes he’s naked. He ducks into the dressing-room and fetches his spare robe, shrugging into it and tying the sash a moment before another knock comes, from the other side.

Eobard opens the door. “Please come in.”

“Thank you.” Ms. Spivot enters the room, medical case in hand. She looks around, and Eobard gestures to the second nightstand, the one on the far side of the bed from the side he usually sleeps on. It’s empty except for a recent copy of the _APS Physical Review,_ which has been serving as Eobard’s bedtime reading for the past few nights. Ms. Spivot hands Eobard the journal and sets her case upon the cleared space. “Before I begin,” she goes on, “I must ask you both to assert that consummation has taken place. This is not a sworn statement and you are not under oath; however, I need to hear it in order to perform the examination.”

“I assert it,” Eobard says.

Ms. Spivot looks at Barry, who only nods.

“I need to hear it out loud,” she says gently.

“I assert it,” Barry says, looking down.

“All right.” Ms. Spivot opens the case. “Mr. Thawne, if you’ll remove any garments below the waist and slide down to the end of the bed, please…”

Barry looks up at Eobard and reaches out, silently. Eobard comes over to him and takes his hand.

The examination is thorough, and there’s no way for it to be less than humiliating for Barry, though Ms. Spivot is as gentle and professional as anyone could be, as even Eobard has to admit. At her suggestion, Eobard sits behind Barry, holding him and letting Barry bury his head as far in Eobard’s chest as the angle will allow. A spare sheet is found and draped over Barry’s knees, which Ms. Spivot busies herself below. That gets them through the majority of the examination, with Ms. Spivot narrating what she’s doing as she does it, and occasionally directing Barry to bear down, relax, or cough.

“All right,” she says at last. “You’re done.”

Barry’s feet slide off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with two uneven thumps. He tries to sit up, flailing slightly from the awkward position he now finds himself in, and Eobard has to help him. The sheet puddles at Barry’s waist, making a mockery of the modesty it tries to preserve.

Ms. Spivot busies herself briefly packing samples away, then straightens. “I need a control sample from you, Dr. Thawne, to match against what I’ve just collected,” she says. “In your case it can just be a cheek swab.”

Eobard nods. He leans forward and permits Ms. Spivot to come at his mouth with the oversized q-tip. A few brushes later, and the swab is resting safely in the sample bag.

“Thank you.” Ms. Spivot checks the label and packs it away with the rest. Then she pulls out her tablet. “I am averring here – ” she shows them the tablet as she scrolls through and taps inside certain pre-set boxes, where check marks appear. “ – that in my professional opinion, and based on my physical examination, consummation took place. The samples I have taken will go to the lab at the CCPD, as previously agreed in your marriage contract, where I and another technician will independently perform a DNA test. If both of our results agree, they will be accepted. If there is a discrepancy there is further legal action which you will be appraised of at that time.” Ms. Spivot takes a deep breath after reciting all of this; it has the sound of a hastily memorized speech, and out of the corner of his eye Eobard sees Barry give Ms. Spivot an encouraging smile. It’s like him to be thinking of his friend at a time like this. Eobard gives Barry a squeeze, arms still around Barry, to make sure Barry remembers to think of himself, too.

“So. Here it is.” Ms. Spivot taps at the bottom of the screen and finger-signs with a flourish in the box that appears. Another tap, and the form melts away, to be replaced with a confirmation screen.

There’s a buzzing from the nightstand. Barry reaches over and fishes out his phone. Eobard’s is still in his dressing-room with the rest of his clothes; he cranes his neck to look over Barry’s shoulder, and Barry holds the device up so Eobard can see. They have received confirmation that a notice of presumptive consummation has been filed, with regard to the string of numbers and letters that is how the legal system refers to their marriage contract. Timestamp, 11:58P.M.

Eobard nods. Lets himself close his eyes briefly in relief. They’ve managed it.

“Thank you, Patty,” Barry says sincerely.

“A car will take you to the CCPD, and then home, or anywhere else you wish to go,” Eobard says.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Dr. Thawne, Mr. Thawne,” Ms. Spivot says, picking up her medical case. “I’ll see myself out.”

She retreats quietly, and has the good sense to close the door behind her.

In Eobard’s arms, Barry goes abruptly boneless. “I feel – sticky,” he mutters, scrubbing at his eyes. “And like I don’t quite belong in my own skin.”

Eobard quashes the ultimately useless urge to tell Barry, once again, how sorry he is that things had had to be this way. He casts about for something more useful and has an inspiration when his eye lands on the door to the bathroom. “What about a good soak?” he suggests.

Barry brightens. “Are there jets?”

“Of course there are jets.”

Barry laughs a little. It’s not quite his normal laugh – it’s nothing like the sex-drenched chuckle Eobard had heard barely half an hour ago – but it’s getting there. “Of course there are.” He sits up straighter, tugging Eobard’s dressing-gown tighter around himself. “Will you go run it, and let me know when it’s ready?”

“Of course.” Eobard moves to get up, then pauses. A sudden impulse takes him, and he picks up the comforter from the foot of the bed and shakes it out, wrapping it around Barry’s shoulders. Barry’s smile becomes a trifle more real, and Eobard kisses his nose. “I’ll be right back.”

“Leave the door open.”

“I will.”

Barry snuggles down into the blankets. “Okay.”

Eobard makes sure to open the door all the way, and he can see Barry very well from where he sits on the side of the soaking tub, testing the temperature of the water as he runs the bath. This is Eobard’s bathroom, so he’s familiar with all the bathing supplies lining the wide shelf that connects the tub to the wall. After a moment’s thought, he calls to Barry, “Do you like lavender?”

The pile of blankets stirs. “Sure, I guess? Why?”

“The bubble bath is scented.”

There’s another laugh, this one even more normal-sounding. “You have bubble bath?”

“Excellent for the skin,” Eobard says, mock-seriously.

“Sounds great,” Barry says. There’s fatigue in his voice now, and Eobard doesn’t think it’s all physical.

The bath fills up, and the scent of lavender steals into the air, insensibly calming to Eobard. He waits until the water is deep enough to cover Barry, should Barry choose to lie down and let it, and the bubbles are thick on top. Then he turns the tap off and goes to fetch his husband.

Barry struggles out of the blankets with visible reluctance, and pauses when he goes to put the dressing-gown off, too. “You know, you didn’t carry me over the threshold.”

Eobard blinks. “I didn’t know that was a tradition in your family.”

“It isn’t universal?”

“I’m afraid not,” Eobard says.

“Oh. Never mind, then.”

That doesn’t sound like the sort of answer Eobard should let stand. “Is it too late?” he asks.

Barry blinks. “I – I don’t know.” He half-raises his hands as if to fend Eobard off. “Don’t wrench your back over a silly impulse.”

“Excuse _me_ ,” Eobard says, mock-offended. “I probably bench-press more than you weigh. And I say it _isn’t_ too late.” Eobard leans down and picks Barry up, leaving the dressing-gown in a puddle on the bed. He carries Barry carefully into the bathroom and sets him down equally carefully – not _in_ the tub, which seems like a bad idea, but on the topmost of the side steps leading into it.

“Thank you,” Barry says, smiling up. “Won’t you get in with me?”

Eobard nods, then pauses. “If you’re all right with it, I’ll close the door and signal the maid?” he suggests carefully. “She’ll strip the bed, which will make it more comfortable tonight.” Something about the way Barry is acting tells him Barry will want to stay close, and given the choice, Eobard would prefer to have Barry in his usual bed then follow Barry to the newly fitted-out suite next door.

Barry yawns. “Fine with me.”

Eobard leaves him for a moment and goes back out through his room into the hallway. He’s not surprised to see the maid who usually takes care of his room (Rachel) in hasty conversation with his housekeeper (Ruth). Rachel is already holding new sheets.

“We’ll be in the bathroom for a good half hour,” Eobard tells them, cutting through to the heart of the matter. “Please have at it.”

“Excellent,” Rachel says approvingly. “Much more comfortable for you and your husband.”

“We just didn’t want to disturb you,” Ruth says, more repressively.

“You won’t,” Eobard assures them, giving them a grateful nod and returning to his husband.

“All set?” Barry has hung the dressing-gown on one of the hooks lining the walls and is in the act of climbing into the tub.

“Yes.” Eobard takes the gown and moves it to the hamper, adding the one he’s wearing, too. They’ve both had rather more exposure to bodily fluids than is quite good for them, but dry cleaning can work wonders these days. Eobard makes sure there are two thick, fluffy towels waiting – there usually are, but today he actually needs the second one for more than just symmetry – then moves to join Barry in the tub, turning on the jets as he goes.

“This is nice,” Barry remarks, scooting forward to let Eobard come in behind him. “Our knees aren’t knocking or anything.”

Indeed, even with two fully-grown men in the tub there’s plenty of room. Barry might be able to brush the far wall with his toes if he stretches; Eobard can’t. And even with his legs spread wide to allow Barry to sit between them, Eobard has to tilt them slightly to let his knees relax against the sides of the tub.

“Yours is just like it,” Eobard tells him. “There’s a tray that hooks onto the sides of the tub, if you want to bring a book in and read. Or your phone. I suppose you read everything on your phone.” Eobard is about half-and-half, himself. He likes the variety available digitally, but some of his books are treasured mementos of his childhood, and he’s sentimentally attached to them.

“Mostly,” Barry agrees. He leans his head back on Eobard’s chest and says nothing more, seeming content to watch the bubbles drift.

Eobard lets the silence stretch on for a while. He nudges Barry when Barry begins to noticeably droop. “Sleep?”

“Yeah,” Barry says tiredly. He shakes his head and turns, giving Eobard a half-smile. “You know, I had bigger plans than this. I was going to get all that other stuff over with and then go back for round two. Maybe even round three. When we could move at our own pace.”

“Maybe we _are_ moving at our own pace,” Eobard says, trying to frame it as a suggestion. “Maybe our pace is just slower than you thought it would be.” He tries a smile of his own. “I’m an old man, after all.”

“Hah,” Barry says eloquently. He looks around. “Is there a washcloth anywhere?”

Eobard reaches behind him without looking and lifts one from the short rack. “May I?”

Barry blinks at him. “If you like.”

“I do.”

Barry seems bemused, but he lets Eobard drag the washcloth over his skin and rub shampoo into his hair. He says, tentatively, “I don’t really, uh, go in for the whole ‘daddy’ thing.”

“Neither do I,” Eobard assures him. “I’m just used to cleaning up my partners after sex, and you seemed as if you could use a little pampering.”

Barry relaxes. “Sounds good to me.”

Eobard doesn’t pretend to do the most thorough job, but he pays attention to Barry’s genitals, the creases of Barry’s thighs and the small hairs on his belly – all places where dried semen may still be lingering, despite their soak. The rest can be taken care of in tomorrow morning’s shower, and the sheets changed again, if the fastidiousness of Eobard’s staff has their way. Eobard wrings out the washcloth, hangs it up, and takes another down for himself. A quick scrub later and he’s urging Barry out of the tub.

They tumble into the freshly-made-up bed, still vaguely damp and suddenly handsy. Eobard isn’t quite sure who had started it: he’d been a little too complacent with regard to Barry’s ass and the washcloth, he admits, and then Barry had tried to return the favor by bringing Eobard a towel and making a grab of his own. His housekeeper will have something to say to Eobard tomorrow about the state of his bathroom, he’s sure. He’s more interested in Barry’s kisses, and the warmth of Barry’s skin against his own.

The burst of fervor only lasts a few minutes. Soon enough Barry is yawning again, and so is Eobard, the day catching up to them.

“Pajamas… in the other room,” Barry slurs, his damp hair leaving moisture across Eobard’s shoulder.

“Forget them,” Eobard mumbles into his pillow. “Make it easier to have morning sex.”

“Knew I married a smart one.” Barry grins into Eobard’s throat. “Lights?”

Eobard waves a hand comically in the direction of the light sensor. It takes almost half a dozen tries before they go out. But go out they do. Then it’s just Eobard and Barry alone together in the darkness, and Eobard tucking the comforter in securely around them both.

“Good night,” Barry says, voice so quiet Eobard has to strain to hear him.

“Good night,” Eobard whispers in return.

He drops a kiss on Barry’s head. Barry’s breath evens out, and Eobard listens to its rhythm until he, too, falls asleep.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ::collapses:: Hi, everyone! I am not dead (a few people have asked). What I am is sick. Bleargh. I know I'm behind on replying to comments, both here and on tumblr, and I'm sorry about that. This chapter represents a near miss in terms of almost not existing, and right now I'm calling that a win and going to bed. I hope no one holds my illness against me, and I appreciate everyone's patience while I get myself back on my feet :)

Barry wakes up warm, a little sore, and thoroughly content. It takes him an extra minute to remember why. He hasn’t just woken from a particularly lovely dream. He’s woken to the reality of his life. There’s an arm thrown loosely around his midsection, the faintest suggestion of a snore in his ear, and the bed sloping ever so slightly away behind Barry, as if there’s a large gravitational mass behind him that would like Barry to come closer still.

He’s married. This is his husband’s bed, in his husband’s house, and it contains – Barry rolls over, the better to appreciate the view – his husband.

Said husband is adorably rumpled, a phrase Barry would not have ever thought to associate with Eobard, who usually makes a point of being impeccably put together. Actually, Barry can’t think of a time when Eobard _hasn’t_ been impeccably groomed. Apparently sleep is the exception. Or perhaps Barry is the exception. It’s a terribly selfish thought, but it makes Barry’s heart beat faster.

Last night Eobard had told Barry that he loved him. Barry had suspected it – had known it, intellectually – but hearing it had been something else. And feeling it had, too. Eobard has always treated Barry with careful respect, always keeping one eye on Barry’s interests and desires and making decisions that take those into account, but last night had been another level entirely. Barry shivers pleasurably at the memories. Eobard had enjoyed it, there’s no doubt there, but there’s also no doubt that Eobard’s thoughts had been for Barry from beginning to end. Barry’s comfort, Barry’s needs, and Barry’s pleasure.

A small spark of guilt tries to ignite at that, but Barry dismisses it. Eobard had wanted to give those things to Barry. To feel guilt over taking them would tarnish Eobard’s gift. The better answer is to be appreciative – and to return to the favor as soon as possible.

Barry lifts his head off the pillow, the better to peer over Eobard’s shoulder and check the time. They’ve slept in; it’s after nine. Barry is usually up at six-thirty or seven, though he doesn’t usually stay up until midnight getting married and deflowered. Eobard probably gets up even earlier, and he probably _does_ stay up late many nights at Society events.

All of which is to say: Barry may wake his husband up without guilt. He grins, while no one but the comforter can see him.

He slides out from under Eobard’s arm. Eobard whuffles unhappily in his sleep at Barry’s movements, but a nudge from Barry rolls him onto his back with only a soft sight. Eobard’s naked, of course. _Morning sex,_ Barry thinks with a grin.

Barry settles between Eobard’s legs and takes a moment to consider the task before him. Eobard’s body hair is as dark as the hair on his head, somewhat wirier, and without the grey threads that are beginning to lighten Eobard’s coif. Barry hefts Eobard’s cock and balls, testing. They’re a pleasant weight. Soft, Barry can mostly hold them in one hand.

Instinct makes Barry look to the nightstand for condoms. Then memory catches up and Barry shakes his head, dismissing the thought. They’d both been fully tested before their marriage; the need to prove consummation had meant they couldn’t use condoms on their wedding night. And having proven that they don’t need them on their wedding night, there’s no reason to use them now, unless Barry objects to swallowing. Which he most decidedly does not. So.

Barry’s never actually tried waking someone up with a blowjob, and at first it’s frankly weird. Eobard is clearly still asleep, but his body’s reacting. Barry’s never performed oral sex without any kind of feedback from his partner. He quickly finds that he misses it. It’s made worse by the fact that this is the _first_ blowjob Barry’s ever given Eobard, and so Barry has absolutely no idea what Eobard likes in a blowjob. Fast? Slow? Teasing, or straight down to business? Does he like his balls played with? Does he prefer aggressive suction, or tongue action? Barry takes his best guess, and stops trying to be at all quiet. Barry’s started this, and he’ll see it through, but he’s not sure he’ll do it again. He suddenly just wants his husband awake.. Awake, and telling Barry just what Eobard likes best, and maybe telling Barry that Barry is doing a very good job indeed…

Eobard starts hardening in Barry’s mouth, and shortly thereafter he starts stirring. “Nnnng?” is the first thing he say, eyes briefly opening and then closing again immediately. “Whaaa?”

The half-asleep mumblings are unexpectedly adorable. Barry melts a little bit, he’s not going to lie. He relaxes his throat, taking more of Eobard in his mouth, and hums suggestively.

_That_ gets a reaction. Eobard’s eyes open again, much more decisively, and he yelps. “Barry!”

Uh-oh, does Eobard not _like_ blowjobs for some reason? Barry slides off – not too fast; he hates the nasty shock of cold air when that happens – and tries to look innocent. “Uh, good morning?”

“Good morning,” Eobard says in what has to be sheer reflexive courtesy. He still looks startled. “Were you just – ”

“I was indeed,” Barry says, trying to sound sensuous. He suspects he actually sounds like a misbehaving kid. He winces, preemptively.

“Uh,” Eobard says. It’s the least eloquent Barry’s ever heard him.

Barry gives Eobard the look that deserves. “What?”

Eobard pauses for a moment, evidently regrouping. Then he says, slowly, “I had not assumed that you would wish to progress so quickly in terms of physical intimacy.”

Apparently Eobard’s awake _now;_ Barry has to stop to untangle that from Eobard-ese. He’s pretty sure it means: _I thought that maybe last night was just because we had to for the marriage contract, and that you wouldn’t necessarily want to do it again right away._

Which is, frankly, ridiculous. Barry had even _told_ Eobard last night that he’d had plans involving multiple rounds of sex after Patty had left. Barry doesn’t think putting it in those terms would endear him to his new husband, though. And he wishes very much for his new husband to find him endearing. So he tries to phrase it in a way Eobard would understand.

“You promised me morning sex,” Barry says. “Do I need to sue you for breach of contract?”

Eobard’s eyes brighten, even as he scoffs. “Here at Thawne Industries, we _always_ keep our word,” he declares.

“So?” Barry makes a show of licking his lips and looking pointedly down at Eobard’s crotch. “May I proceed, Dr. Thawne?”

Eobard’s cock gives an interested twitch. “I suppose,” Eobard says, managing to sound bored and lustful at the same time. “Just a moment – ” Eobard slides back, sitting up with his back against the headboard. Then he’s urging Barry back between his legs. “I feel it only fair to warn you,” he adds. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and if you take this all the way through, that’s probably going to be it for me for most of the day.”

Which means Barry won’t get fucked again. He considers this, but shrugs. He’s started down this path and he really wants to see it through. Besides: “You’ve never had _me_ in your bed before,” he says cheekily. “We’ll have to see if that changes anything.”

Eobard’s eyes darken. “I suppose we will,” he says.

Barry shivers. Eobard’s voice has deepened, too, and the rumble of it _does_ something to him. “Okay,” he gasps. Then he dives back in, before he can say or do anything to embarrass himself further.

He is _much_ more comfortable with Eobard awake and able to give feedback. Eobard likes his blowjobs on the firm side of the spectrum, but with plenty of tongue action to go along with the suction. Barry tries gently rolling Eobard’s balls around in one hand, and finds that hand gently but firmly removed and placed back on Eobard’s thighs. Eobard appreciates the occasional deep-throat but mainly likes variety in the bobbing of Barry’s head. That’s the part Barry has the most trouble with, and finally Eobard slides his hand into Barry’s hair, tugging and pushing to show Barry just how Eobard likes it. Barry finds himself making mistakes just to feel that corrective tug, and by the time he’s succeeded in bringing Eobard to orgasm, he’s rutting against the bed himself, half-controlled jerks that only make him want more.

“Come here,” Eobard says afterwards, opening his arms and letting Barry rest his head on Eobard’s shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Barry’s heart plummets into his stomach. “You didn’t like it,” he surmises. He swallows. The taste of Eobard’s come still lingers in the back of Barry’s mouth.

“On the contrary,” Eobard contradicts. “I liked it very much. And you did, too, it seems.” He gestures to Barry’s very visible erection.

Barry squirms – partly in embarrassment, and partly in a shameless attempt to find friction. “Well, _yeah,_ ” he says in what he hopes is a normal, _of-course-I-like-sex-with-my-husband_ kind of way.

“Certain parts of it you seemed to like more than others.” Eobard slides a hand up Barry’s back – Barry shivers again, when it briefly pauses at Barry’s nape – then back into Barry’s hair. Deliberately he tugs. Barry can’t hold back the moan.

“Last night you asked me to make you feel grounded,” Eobard observes. “I thought there might be more to that request than wedding night jitters. Am I right? Do you like a firm hand in bed?”

Barry swallows. He knows better than to think Eobard will mock or reject him, but there’s a burst of nervousness that comes with admitting it, every time. He’s been lucky with his lovers up until now, but – still. They’d been a small, carefully selected pool, after all.

He makes himself look up at Eobard. Reassures himself by the warmth in Eobard’s eyes. Nods, slowly.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Eobard says, and it has the air of a confession. “As you may have guessed, I enjoy administering a firm hand.”

“Oh,” Barry squeaks. “That’s – you do?” Barry feels silly as soon as the words leave his mouth. Hadn’t Eobard done exactly as Barry had asked last night? Used his weight to keep Barry grounded, maneuvered Barry into position, trusted Barry not to move if Eobard asked him not to? Any one of those might have been an accident, the normal ebb and flow of sex between two consenting adults, but all of them together are suggestive at the least.

“I do,” Eobard promises Barry. He tightens his arms around Barry – not harshly, but firmly, in a way that makes Barry feel secure and surrounded and wanted. Barry relaxes into it, suddenly far too happy for words. He hadn’t thought – hadn’t even dared to hope – that, in addition to everything else, they might have this in common, too.

“May I ask?” Eobard says, extending the invitation without being demanding.

Barry’s eyes are sliding closed, the feeling of warmth overpowering everything else. “Hal,” he says. “He didn’t like sex, but he liked the rest of it. Giving orders, taking care of me. And I found that I really liked being taken care of.”

“And obeying,” Eobard says, as if he’s just realized something.

Barry has to laugh a little. “Yes.” He raises his head slightly. “It doesn’t mean – look, there’s what I like in bed and there’s what I like outside of it, you know?”

“I understand perfectly,” Eobard assures Barry. He wears a crooked smile of his own. “Believe me, I am under no delusions that you will suddenly become meek and biddable. Inside bed _or_ out.”

“Hal said I was pretty pushy for a sub,” Barry admits. He peeks up at Eobard, relieved when Eobard’s expression is nothing worse than thoughtful and intrigued.

“I don’t doubt it,” is what Eobard says. “And I expect we’ll talk more on this subject. But for the moment, is there something you would particularly like done to help you with that?” Eobard indicates Barry’s unflagging erection.

Barry turns pink. “Uh.”

“I make no demands,” Eobard says gently, “but your trust would be an honor.”

_No demands my ass,_ Barry thinks. As if Barry could fail to tell Eobard anything after a statement like _that_. “I wonder if you might, uh, tell me things? About me, maybe. What you like about me.” Barry’s face is bright red, he’s sure. He can barely look at Eobard. “And jerk me off. While you do it?”

There’s a moment of silence. Barry risks the glance back up at Eobard. To find Eobard looking at Barry as if Barry is a particularly delicious piece of sushi that Eobard would like to devour.

“Oh, _Barry,_ ” Eobard all but purrs. “Come here, love.”

Barry shivers. He goes absolutely boneless, which would be embarrassing if it weren’t so _good_ , and lets Eobard tug him around so that Barry’s back is to Eobard’s chest. Barry had been curled into Eobard, but now he feels spread open and on display, if only to the empty room. Eobard drapes Barry’s legs over his own, slides one arm around Barry’s chest and pulls Barry back into him, firm but not suffocatingly slow.

Eobard’s other arm goes lower, toying with Barry’s cock, not quite holding it yet. “You know, you astonish me,” he murmurs. “With everything that’s happened to you, you might easily have become a very hard person. Jaded. Suspicious. And yet that’s not who you are at all.”

“I try to see the good in people,” Barry breathes. His breath hitches after he says the word _good_ : Eobard has wrapped his hand around Barry’s cock and given it a long, teasing stroke.

“ _I_ try to see the good in people,” Eobard says. “You don’t try; you just do.”

“I’m not – ohh…”

“You care so deeply. Your foster family are good people, yes, but under the circumstances of your going to them, it would not have been wonderful if you’d failed to truly take them to your heart. You could have been cordial and respectful and well-meaning without actually loving them. But you do, don’t you? You love them very much.”

“I tried,” Barry whispers. Eobard is stroking him gently now, steadily. The physical sensations, combined with the sound of his voice, the meaning of what he’s saying, is making something shift and crack in Barry’s chest. This isn’t what Barry had expected – this isn’t what Hal would have said, at all, if Barry had asked for this – but Barry swallows and finds the words pouring out of him. “I didn’t want to love them. Not at first. I was afraid that loving them meant that there would be less love for Mom and Dad and everyone else. But they were so good to me, Joe and Iris, and they knew – they _knew_ , Eobard. They’d lost Francine and Wally. It wasn’t exactly the same, Francine and Wally died in a car accident, but they were still dead. And Joe and Iris loved me anyway. I had to love them back, I _had_ to.”

His voice catches again. Barry is suddenly so tired. He leans his head back against Eobard’s shoulder. He thinks that maybe it’s okay to lean on Eobard. Eobard can carry him for a while.

“You loved them enough to come shout me down in my own office when you thought I wouldn’t let Eddie marry Iris,” Eobard says. “I think I fell in love with you then. You were like something out of a child’s story – oh, yes – upright, shoulders set, eyes spitting fire. You were righteous, Barry. It lit you up from the inside.”

Eobard’s voice is soft and hushed, but Barry hears every word clearly. It makes him tremble. The things Eobard is saying about him – Barry has always _wanted_ to be a good person; he’s always tried to be. He’s wanted the best for his family and his friends and pretty much everyone he’s ever met. He’s tried to do good in the world with his work for the CCPD. But he’s always felt somewhat helpless in the face of the uphill mountain that represents the world’s ills.

But Eobard – Eobard thinks he’s made a difference.

Eobard isn’t done. “Your passion and your drive, they awe me. You aren’t afraid to speak truth to power. Nor are you afraid to go against the status quo when it’s standing in the way of someone’s happiness. You may doubt, you may waver, but when you know yourself to be in the right, I have never yet seen anything stop you. You may say my sample size is small, but I believe that I never _will_ see anything stop you.”

Eobard’s hand tightens on Barry’s cock; his strokes become firmer, almost demanding. “I want to see you keep going,” he says. “I want to go out before you and erase everything that’s stopping you, and then stand back and watch you run. You’ll do such brilliant things, Barry. All I want is to be there to see them.”

Barry’s orgasm takes him by surprise. It doesn’t feel like it usually does, an overwhelming burst of pleasure coming at the end of a sharp rising crescendo. It feels more like something that ebbs through him. Like the tide going out in the ocean. Like a heavy weight is leaving him, piece by piece.

The something in Barry’s chest that Eobard’s words are touching is cracking to pieces. It feels like an old scar, one of many that Barry has layered over and around his heart to keep it beating. Just one of many. There will be a hundred left, when this one has gone. And yet, Barry has gone his whole life wrapping scars around his heart. Nothing has ever before taken one away.

Eobard’s free hand brushes Barry’s cheeks. Dimly Barry realizes he’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” Barry says immediately, hiccupping with it but pushing on, suddenly afraid – “God, I’m sorry – you must think – I’m not sad, I’m _not_ – ”

“Shh,” Eobard says comfortingly. “Shh, lie down.”

Barry does, wary and frightened. Eobard lies next to him, and tugs the comforters up over them both.

It’s difficult for Barry to speak, but he forces the words out. “I really liked that,” he blurts. “Please – don’t think I didn’t. I know I’m crying.”

“It’s all right. Barry, it is. I know.” Eobard holds Barry tightly. “Please let me take care of you.”

Barry looks at him. Eobard doesn’t look angry. He looks a little sad himself. A little more fierce. But mostly he looks at Barry like he loves him.

And that, Barry thinks, as he burrows closer and lets himself be held – that’s all he’s ever needed.

* * *

It takes perhaps half an hour of being held, and gently rocked, and hummed to, before Barry is calm. Eobard has a surprisingly good singing voice, and doesn’t seem at all put out to need to use it to comfort his new husband after said husband had burst into tears during sex.

“I told you it would be an honor to have your trust, and I meant it,” Eobary says, when Barry tries to apologize. “In all the forms that takes.”

After _that_ , Barry can’t face the prospect of breakfast in bed without turning bright red, so after a quick shower they thank Eobard’s housekeeper for her good intentions and eat in the dining room regardless. Given the scale of the rest of the house, Barry wouldn’t have been surprised to find one of those stereotypical dining rooms from _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous_ : enormous, chandeliered, featuring an improbably long table that Eobard and Barry would be seated at opposite ends of. To Barry’s relief, no such room materializes. The dining room table is bigger than the one at the West bungalow, to be sure, but it’s a respectable eight feet instead of a football-field-sized monster. And the place settings are already laid for two places next to each other, Eobard at the head and Barry at his right.

No sooner are they seated then food appears. Barry stares down at his plate in astonishment, then up at the housekeeper. “Are you a mind-reader?” he blurts out.

She laughs comfortably. “No, but you should take some time out and thank your old family. Very anxious for your comfort, they are. You know your sister helped design your room.”

“No, I didn’t,” Barry says, startled.

“Yes indeed. Very nice folks. Glad to have met them.” The housekeeper smiles, then bustles off.

“Iris decorated my room?” Barry asks Eobard. He picks up his fork – he _is_ hungry – and begins tearing into his french toast and eggs. One of his favorites, though he doesn’t have the time to make them for himself most mornings.

“Designed,” Eobard says. “She worked with the interior decorator on the details. We wanted it to be as much to your taste as possible. Of course if you want any changes – ”

Barry waves this off impatiently. “That’s wonderful,” he says. “I – thank you. Both.”

“Better thank Iris in person,” Eobard says wisely.

Barry opens his mouth. Then closes it again. It’s just occurred to him – he’s not going to see Iris every day. Not any more. He doesn’t live in the same house as her; he won’t come home to the same place. They won’t eat dinner together every evening, or lunches on most weekends. They won’t run errands together just because one of them has something to get done and the other one of them is hanging around with nothing better to do.

Eobard doesn’t have to go through that. He isn’t leaving his birth family or his home. He’ll still see everyone he’s always seen, just as often has he’d ever seen them.

Except…

“Will you miss Eddie?” Barry finds himself asking. “When he marries out?”

Eobard sighs, looking wistful. “Very much. He’s my favorite cousin.”

“Why?”

“He’s true to himself. Even when it would be better to be otherwise.” Eobard’s smile turns rueful. “I don’t wish to give you a bad opinion of the rest of the family, but we all of us have our little tricks. We – we seek to ingratiate, even when we’re supposedly safe among family. We don’t turn it off. Even I. But not Eddie. I appreciate that, even though I’ve never really understood him.”

Barry nods slowly. “We can be very good friends with Eddie and Iris, can’t we? Even after they’re married?”

“I hope so,” Eobard says. His smile warms. “If I don’t get to be a godparent to at least one of their children, I will be quite put out, if you want the truth.”

Barry is startled into a laugh. “It would be only fair,” he says. “Joe was my godfather, you know. That’s how I came to be a West.”

“I know.” Eobard is looking at Barry with an odd mix of emotions: tender, wistful, regretful – that will be for Barry’s mother’s death – hopeful. “It is not a comfortable feeling, to think that my present happiness has been purchased at such a cost,” is what he finally says.

“I don’t think it’s like that,” Barry says. “I – you know, if Mom had lived, I think I would have badgered her into introducing me to you anyway. I’d always wanted to work at STAR Labs, my whole life, and after I got my master’s I bet she would have given in and let me apply. Introduced me to you, probably, to give me a leg up. And the rest would have been history.” Barry feels his cheeks redden, but this time he makes himself hold Eobard’s gaze instead of giving in to the urge to study his plate. “You aren’t the only one who formed a strong positive impression during our first meeting.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Eobard’s hand creeps across the table, his own oatmeal and oranges temporarily forgotten.

Barry holds his hand in return, enjoying the moment, before Eobard gives Barry’s hand a squeeze and withdraws it so that he may return to his neglected meal.

“What are we doing this afternoon?” Barry asks. “I mean, what _can_ we do? What are our options?”

They’re not taking a honeymoon in the traditional sense. At least, not right away. The rapidity with which they’d held the wedding had precluded also taking the time off to go away together. Eobard has talked of taking a month off in the spring and touring Europe. Barry, dreading an endless whirl of Society events, is more in favor of a week or two in a mountain cabin or an island resort.

The wedding having been held on a Friday at least gives them the weekend. True, Eobard usually works on weekends. But, he says, Meloni had made it clear that she would personally chew Eobard out should he dare to so much as send an email.

“I told her she was just too enamored of the taste of power she’s gotten in the last week and doesn’t want to give it back up again,” Eobard had reported to Barry, “and she laughed. It was a pretty good evil villain laugh, I have to give her credit.”

Barry had laughed, too. He hasn’t gotten a lot of opportunity to get to know Meloni, but he hopes that changes. He likes her already. She has a wicked sense of humor that tickles Barry’s fancy. A sense of humor that Barry is beginning to see peeking out beneath Eobard’s reserve, too.

They’ve already got plans for the evening; the opera is performing again, and Eobard has retained the family’s seats for his and Barry’s use. The Thawne family has a box. Barry has been to the opera before, twice, but never in a box. He’s oddly excited for the event. He knows that part of the point is for the two of them to show themselves as a newly married couple, but he’s also looking forward to the performance itself. And the experience of it. Spending the evening out with his husband, enjoying music, in the elegance of the opera house… Barry shakes his head, hoping he’s not turning into a snob.

Eobard hums thoughtfully. “What do you like to do, when you have time off?”

“Read,” Barry says promptly. “Bake, sometimes. Play board games, if someone else is around and has time.”

“Do you play chess?” Eobard looks intrigued.

Barry shrugs. “A little. I’m sure you’d trounce me easily.” He concentrates briefly on his french toast, which is being stubborn around the crust. It’s been made with actual french _bread_ , which turns out to be amazing. Barry will never look at french toast made with standard loaves again.

“Would you like to get better?” Eobard asks.

Barry looks up. That’s definitely a challenging glint in his husband’s eye.

“Well,” he says carefully. “I suppose I could give it a try.”

Eobard grins. “You won’t regret it,” he says.

Barry nods. He’s pretty sure he will, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to have a lazy afternoon at home with his husband, playing chess, followed by a lovely evening out. And then, if Barry has his way, they’ll come home and have another night together. Even better than the last.

“Do your worst,” Barry says, and grins back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [gideonshipsit](http://gideonshipsit.tumblr.com/post/150376021840) made an incredible [aesthetic post](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/150417097710/gideonshipsit-whoo-made-this) for Eobard's declaration of love in this chapter! Go look at it and scream endlessly over how amazing it is, seriously!


	17. Chapter 17

Barry loses at chess. Badly. He loses badly twice. Eobard takes pity on him, and Barry only loses the third game moderately.

“You’re getting better,” Eobard says encouragingly. “You just need some practice.”

“I think I’ll need more than that,” Barry mutters.

Eobard hums thoughtfully. “When Meloni was learning, she practiced a lot against a chess program. She said it helped her to have someone to try new things on that _wasn’t_ me. Preserved some of the strategy inherent in the element of surprise.” Then Eobard brightens. “Why don’t you practice with Meloni?”

“Eobard,” Barry says patiently. “I didn’t marry Meloni. The entire point is that I’m spending time with _you_.”

They’re in the den, which Barry had vaguely remembered as the room Patty had been waiting in last night, though he’d retained little more than a glimpse of a comfortable-looking sofa in pale fawn and an end table with a lamp on it. Those items had still been present today, but Barry had now had time to notice more. Like the fireplace – another gas-burner; Eobard had said, ruefully, that though he preferred a wood fire, it wasn’t worth the hassle in a new-built house meant to be run with a minimum of staff. Or the pictures on the wall, which, like the pictures on the wall of the entertaining house in the heart of the city, are all informal shots. Or the beautiful carved wood chess table – not board; _table_ – tucked away in the corner by the mantelpiece.

Eobard had pulled it out to sit in front of the fireplace, and wouldn’t you know it, the two armchairs _flanking_ the fire happened to be exactly the right distance apart that Barry and Eobard could sit in them and address the chessboard. The table had two small wings that folded out from the sides, where Barry’s hot chocolate and Eobard’s tea are resting on sandstone coasters. The table itself is inlaid with some other kind of stone that Barry doesn’t recognize. It’s smooth, but it looks as if it hasn’t always been so. The colors of the chessboard are a nontraditional rose pink and rich grey. In between turns, while waiting to lose horribly, Barry has been spinning his many lost pieces around between his fingers and just admiring the magnificent craftsmanship of it all.

Now he glances up mischievously, admiring the somewhat bewildered look on Eobard’s face. It’s like Eobard can’t quite _believe_ it when Barry says something like that to him. Barry knows the feeling. Every time someone calls him Mr. Thawne – which has happened more times than one would think, as various servants have popped in to consult on something or other – Barry wants to pinch himself.

This comfortable room, with its warm firelight and the late afternoon sun slanting through, and the beautiful things that are all about it, and Barry’s husband – none of it seems quite real. But if Barry is dreaming, he doesn’t want to wake up.

“Well,” Eobard says at last, “you’ll just have to teach me some other game, then, to make it fair.”

Barry looks at his husband, consideringly. “How long did we have until dinner?”

Eobard glances over to the clock on the wall. “About half an hour,” he says. “Too long for another game. We have to eat and dress. The Opera House is on the other side of the city from here, too, so we’re really on a tight schedule…”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Barry says meaningfully. “I’ve thought of another way to make it fair.”

They end up being late for dinner anyway.

* * *

The Central City Opera House is an aging dowager beauty of a building. Opening for the first time in 1927, then the belle of the city, it represents the height of the art deco architectural style. Long sweeping lines rise straight up for six stories and then taper gracefully to a point, with enough flourishes and tracings to keep a geometry student busy for years. Its gold-washed highlights place it at odds with the more generally silver-accented, modernist buildings that dominate the Central City downtown. Central City has existed since the early 1920s, but it hadn’t really taken off until the post-World-War-II boom. There are only a few places in the city that still harken back to that interregnum era. Park Row, where the oldest families headquarter their companies, is one of them. The courthouse, too, though it’s been expanded over the years with new wings that, thanks to the miracle of the always going with the lowest bidder, make no attempt to integrate gracefully with their parent building. And the Opera House is another.

Their car had dropped them off. They’d been swept inside by the waiting doorman and deposited their outerwear at the coat check. A _separate_ coat check then the one used by the general public. Box seats have a separate entrance entirely. Instead of being off the sidewalk and easily accessible by Central City’s modest downtown light rail, it’s tucked in the rear of the building, where a U-shaped road allows personal drivers to drop off their charges and whisk away again into traffic with barely a pause. Once inside, Barry sees that everything from restrooms to smoking-rooms – no longer used for their original purpose, Barry’s sure – are duplicated in this second, private concourse. There’s no need to pass through to the spaces served by the main entrance and interact with the _hoi polloi._ Even the staircase against the left wall stretches all the way up to the box floor, with no breaks in between.

Barry’s chest tightens; it’s hard to draw breath. This Barry’s world now. This morning and afternoon, back at the house, it had all seemed so easy. Yes, there had been beauty and comfort and money breathing from every object, servants in and out, little flourishes showing that Eobard had been solicitous of Barry’s preferences. But that had been personal. Eobard shows his feelings through expressions of money and power, Barry has finally realized. Where Barry would give his husband a kiss, Eobard would give Barry an entire suite, decorated with Iris’ input, to make Barry feel at home. That knowledge makes Eobard’s lifestyle and gestures easy to accept, in spite of their magnitude.

This, though – this is different. This is institutionalized. This is not a personal expression of love. This is a testament to power and the systems that concentrate and preserve it in the hands of a few. A few among whom Barry is now counted. That thought makes it harder to summon up the necessary polite smile.

Despite Eobard and Barry have been – ahem – late to dinner, they’ve managed to arrive with a few minutes to spare for the performance itself. The pre-performance social hour, Barry sees, is already fading. The concourse is largely deserted, only a few people still standing around. Eobard and Barry walk around the room, seeing and being seen, but Eobard’s attempts to start a conversation are unsuccessful. Two people give Barry openly hostile looks as they turn away, which makes Barry shrink back miserably even as Eobard stiffens.

“Ignore them,” Eobard counsels, though he’s still glaring at a well-dressed woman’s back. “At intermission we should see some friendlier faces. Will you want wine during the performance?”

Barry opens his mouth to accept. There’s something about the setting that _calls_ for wine, not so much for its own sake but for the aesthetics of it: the glass held in the hand, the light reflecting off the crystal. The thought sparks another, a memory. Eobard saying, calm but with the faintest controlled trace of scorn, _you’re not supposed to drink it like it’s lemonade._

Voice temporarily untrustworthy, Barry shakes his head. He turns away from Eobard and studies the pictures on the wall. They’re mainly blow-ups of old playbills. Some of them are quite beautiful, the artistry gone into them clearly extensive. Others are more minimalist. One is only white print on a black background. The yellow blocks spelling out _playbill_ are shocking on that image, where on others they seem more natural. Barry studies it, trying to understand what’s so different about that one.

Another presence approaches them. Not a fellow guest, but a discreet waiter. Naturally. Bluebloods don’t go to the bar and line up to buy their drinks. Their drinks come to them. Another way in which their lives are different from everyone else’s.

Eobard glances at Barry, who feels the gaze on his cheek but doesn’t turn his head back. Eobard murmurs an order too quiet for Barry to hear. Then Eobard’s hand is under Barry’s elbow, just firm enough to communicate a suggestion. Barry yields to it. He allows himself to be taken up six flights of stairs and shown into a private – room? It’s not quite a room, Barry sees. Not like a box seat at a stadium might be. There’s no extra private space behind the pair of comfortable-looking seats drawn up to a railing. Nowhere for food to go – not that Barry had been planning to eat buffalo wings and drink beer, but there’s an air about this place that says that food is unwelcome.

At every other event Barry’s been to, the price of admission had just been the beginning; the venue had had a dozen other ways waiting to take patrons’ money, from food and drink to souvenirs to fees for things like programs. And yet, if Barry isn’t mistaken…

Barry goes over to the chairs and looks down. Sitting there neatly on each seat is a playbill and a pair of binoculars in a small brown bag with a picture of the Opera House traced on them in gold. No rental charge in sight. Barry has gotten used to not seeing how money moves, when he’s with Eobard – sometimes Eobard whips out a credit card like everyone else, but sometimes things just appear, and it’s understood that there is a tab and a bill that will be taken care of by an accountant later – but Barry realizes, suddenly, that that isn’t the case here. That there is a certain price of admission that, once paid, conveys everything else along with it.

“You don’t have to like wine to move about in Society,” Eobard says carefully. He’s closed the door behind them, a rich curtain falling over it to conceal it from within, and turned on an additional light. When they’d entered, there had only been one faint small light on, like a nightlight, embedded in the far wall – the wall the seats are drawn up to, overlooking the bowl of the Opera House and the stage. Just enough light to see by, not enough to disturb the performance. But the house lights are still up, and when Eobard touches the switch, a small globe above their heads illuminates brilliantly.

“In fact it probably helps if you don’t,” Barry observes, equally careful. He chooses the leftmost seat, at random, and moves the playbill and binoculars so he can sit down. There’s room enough at the balcony rail for perhaps four or five seats, but tonight only two are present. No doubt someone had told someone else to call over and tell someone here that only two Thawnes would be using the box tonight.

“I don’t know about that.” Eobard comes over to the balcony rail, but doesn’t take the second seat. He leans against the rail instead, back to the objectively magnificent lower bowl, body turned towards Barry instead.

“You’re not supposed to actually drink it, right? You’re supposed to just show it off.” Barry hears his own voice and wants to wince. Why is he _angry_?

Eobard is frowning slightly, probably wondering the same thing. “It depends on the setting,” he says slowly. “At dinner, or at the opera, you’re certainly meant to drink it. At other venues, sometimes it’s more of a prop…” Barry’s husband is not a stupid man: a look of understanding immediately crosses his face. “You’re thinking of the gala,” Eobard says.

“You scolded me for drinking champagne.” Barry avoids Eobard’s gaze, looking out over the bowl. The seats are beginning to fill up. The people look small to his eyes – the lower bowl is six stories down, after all – and yet the stage itself doesn’t seem that far away. He’d thought he might feel silly, up here so far away from everything, and needing to use binoculars just to enjoy the show. He thinks if someone stood on stage now, though, he’d be able to see them just fine. Maybe the binoculars are an affectation. A nod to an older time. Or maybe they’re for seeing details the eye would otherwise miss, from any seat in the house.

“I would not have done so if I’d known how you’d take it to heart.” Eobard’s gaze remains steady on Barry. “I shouldn’t have in any case. You weren’t mine to scold, and even if you had been, you weren’t a child. And I didn’t realize how much you didn’t know.”

“There’s still a lot I don’t know.” The boxes across from theirs had been empty, but now a curtain twitches and someone enters, two boxes left from directly across theirs. Barry is glad to see that he can’t make out much more than a vague shape. If he used the binoculars, he supposed he’d be able to see the other person’s face, but there’s probably a taboo against that. These boxes are private enough.

“You’ll learn it,” Eobard says.

“When?” Barry finally looks at his husband. “How many years had you been studying etiquette, before you had your coming out? And how much more had you never _had_ to study, because it had just been the way things were for you?” He blinks and has to look away again. “You’ve brought me here,” Barry gestures around, “but I don’t belong. I don’t even know whether it’s okay to drink the wine.” He ends with a laugh that sounds more like a cry. Barry stares fixedly at his hands and wishes to be elsewhere. But where? Home? He can’t _go_ home, not to the home he’s always known. Eobard’s house is wonderful, and welcoming, and everyone is going out of Barry’s way to make it feel like Barry’s home, but – an old loss burns in Barry’s throat. Once he’d stared at the walls of the West bungalow and felt the exact same way.

“Barry – ” Eobard comes back into Barry’s field of vision, dropping to a crouch and taking Barry’s hands in his. “Of course there are a million silly rules, and of course there are going to be people who will care only about how well you obey them, and of course you’ll learn them as fast as you can, and of course it won’t be enough and you’ll break a dozen of them. _I_ still break a few at every gathering. But you already have what no amount of lessons will ever be able to teach.”

Eobard gives Barry’s hands a shake when he says this, insistently, and Barry finds himself looking up in spite of himself. Not far up. The way Eobard is crouching, it’s only a brief flick of his eyes to go from his hands to Eobard’s intent gaze.

“What?” Barry asks, wanting to know in spite of himself. “What do I have?”

“Honor,” Eobard says with finality.

Barry’s lips shape the word, but no sound comes out. Eobard nods anyway, as if Barry had made his tongue work, and goes on.

“You want to do the right thing. Always. What do you think all the silly rules are _for?_ They’re because power doesn’t always equal responsibility, and stabbing people ruins the carpet – ” Barry, startled, laughs in spite of himself. “The rules are just to keep people acting honorably. And to provide a way to punish them for acting _dis_ honorably, in a better way than pulling out the swords we don’t all carry anymore and challenging each other to duels.”

Barry laughs again. A quick smile flickers across Eobard’s face, and he relaxes imperceptibly.

Eobard goes on, more seriously: “I can’t tell you there aren’t people who haven’t lost sight of that. There are. They think the rules are an end unto themselves, and they’ll judge you for flubbing them. But somehow I don’t think you’d have any patience with them anyway; you don’t suffer fools. Everyone else will look at you and see that you’re an honorable man, acting in good faith, and they won’t care about the rest.”

There’s a discreet tap on the door just then. Eobard hesitates, then lets Barry go and goes over to the door hidden behind the curtain. Barry turns around in the chair to watch him, thinking about what he’s said.

The tapping turns out to have been another waiter, whose initial move to enter the box is blocked by Eobard’s careful positioning. Eobard accepts two glasses filled with ruby liquid instead, inclines his head in a way that Barry interprets as _your assistance is appreciated_ – or, more likely, _I will arrange for the usual tip –_ and turns back towards Barry, looking a question without words.

Barry looks at his husband, in the bright unforgiving light of the overhead globe. He sees the grey in Eobard’s hair and the lines on Eobard’s face. Remembers the worry that always creeps into Eobard’s voice when he talks about Barry’s youth, or the provision in the marriage contract for Barry’s jointure, or the way Eobard had sent Meloni in his place to half the meetings they’d had over the week of their engagement, throwing them together so that they’d have to become friends, or at least so that Meloni would think well of Barry. Would be inclined to accept him now and support him later. Barry thinks that Eobard Thawne can certainly never have had any shortage of opportunities to get married. There would have been enough people willing to marry him for his name and his money; Eobard could have had his pick. If all he’d wanted had been a spouse who knew a thousand and one rules of etiquette and had good cheekbones and better connections and all of the other things that Barry doesn’t entirely understand, but bluebloods value, then Eobard could have had that any time he’d wanted. Even now he could have them – or, well, he could have had, as recently a week ago, before they’d announced their engagement. Another memory from the gala: Tina McGee saying, _You’re being eyed by half the debutantes in the room, you know._

Eobard very provably had never wanted any of them. But Barry thinks of the way Eobard had kissed him at the altar. Danced with him at the reception. Made love to him later that night. Held Barry’s hand while Patty had done what had been necessary, and taken care of him afterwards, when Barry had clung to Eobard and forgotten to feel badly about it. Eobard very provably wants Barry. And it’s not as if Barry had pretended to know how to move in Society at any point in their history.

“I’d love some wine, actually,” Barry says, holding out his hand. “And some company.”

Eobard breaks into a relieved smile and hands Barry his glass, just as the house lights flash.

* * *

The opera is  _La Boheme,_ which Barry has heard of, of course, but not seen before. The other two times he’d been here it had been  _Die Zauberflöte_ and  _Miss Saigon._ Iris had really loved  _Miss Saigon_ , and for months after that she’d played the soundtrack, read about the play, and subjected the entire family to viewings of various film versions, not just of  _Miss Saigon_ itself but also  _Madame Butterfly_ and  _Camille._ Barry still can’t keep various details straight between all the different versions. He wonders vaguely how Eddie will live with Iris’ opera obsession, especially if they start having regular use of the Thawne box seats, then forgets that thought entirely in the swell of the orchestra opening the performance.

The Opera House prides itself on being – Barry grins – a stuffy old blueblooded institution, so the opera is performed in its original Italian. But it likes money as much as the next historical institution which doesn’t get as much city funding as it thinks it should, so there’s a scrolling English translation projected onto a long slim screen installed across the top of the stage. The plot doesn’t seem like much, but Barry finds himself getting into the music, so much so that he’s blinking and startled when the curtain drops and the house lights come up for the intermission.

“What do you think so far?” Eobard asks Barry, setting his binoculars down. Over chess earlier, he’d admitted to seeing _La Boheme_ three times before, so he’s been spending much more of the performance with the glasses to his face, presumably enjoying details he hadn’t had time or attention to pay to before.

“Mimì’s confusing me a little,” Barry says honestly. “She changes her mind every third scene.”

“The character of Mimì is combined in the opera – it was two separate women in the original novel,” Eobard offers. “That may have something to do with it.”

“Makes sense.” Barry stretches a little. Movement from across the way draws his eye: the occupants of the other boxes are rising, walking out. People liking to stretch their legs during an intermission is nothing new to Barry, but – _all_ of them?

“Let me guess,” Barry says resignedly. “We’re supposed to go socialize.”

“We are,” Eobard admits. “But we could skip it, if you prefer. There will be plenty of time after the opera.”

Barry seriously considers taking Eobard up on this, but a glance at his watch makes him shake his head. “I’ll be tired enough afterwards. Better to do some socializing now and get to leave earlier later.” He’s not as young as he used to be, he supposes. They’d slept late, but even so Barry is feeling the effects of having been up until midnight last night.

Eobard nods and rises, extending a hand to Barry. Barry rises, too. He casts a glance at their empty wine-glasses, sitting now on a small side table, but Eobard shakes his head.

“The waiter will be by to collect them. Shall I have him bring another?”

“Only if you want me to fall asleep even faster,” Barry says ruefully. “It was very nice, though.” He’s not usually a fan of red wine, but this must have been some kind of dessert wine intended for standalone sipping. It had tasted _chocolaty_. Barry still hadn’t wanted to drink it too quickly, but one glass for the entire first half had been perfect.

Eobard and Barry descend the stair again, back down to the private concourse for those wealthy enough to afford box seats. It had been empty before, but now it hosts a swirl of people. Not too many for it to be precisely _full_ , but respectable. Barry swallows when they reach the ground. He wonders if he’ll ever come to like this sort of thing. Eobard seems perfectly relaxed. He scans the crowd, probably identifying faces and queuing people up for polite discussion, before selecting an older couple and approaching at just the right pace to allow the previous conversationalist to disengage and leave the primary target free to greet the Thawnes.

Barry is surprised to find that as many as one in three faces are passingly familiar to him, though he can’t always come up with the right name to match. Happily, that doesn’t matter at all: unless the person had been at his wedding, this is their first time meeting Barry _Thawne_ , which, as Barry has already been taught, necessitates a formal introduction. Barry is technically meeting everyone for the first time all over again.

It’s not exactly as if Barry Allen had never existed. Barry had been worried about that – worried about the repudiation of a self he’d fought so hard to hold on to – but the reality isn’t like that. Rather, the introductions feel ceremonial, a recognition that Barry has expanded the definition of himself and a validation of that new definition. It also feels familiar, and Barry can’t put his finger on it until he’s introduced to _Doctor_ Thaddeus Newton and realizes it feels like a reception he’d attended in grad school a few times, the one his department had put on every year to honor the new Ph.Ds. A point had been made then, too, of the new grads being reintroduced to everyone as Doctor So-and-so. Barry had never gotten his doctorate, but he’s gotten a new last name, and the feeling is the same.

 _I haven’t lost who I’ve been,_ Barry thinks gladly, smiling at Dr. Newton and shaking hands firmly. _I’ve just added to it._

Then the entire moment goes sliding sideways when Dr. Newton frowns and says, “Yes, we’ve been introduced. And I must say, Mr. Thawne, I did not appreciate what you said to me.”

* * *

There’s a moment of frozen silence. Then Eobard turns slightly, which has the effect of moving Barry a step back and drawing Dr. Newton’s eyes towards him. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of us both,” Eobard says. The tone of his voice has dipped several degrees. Calling it cold would be an exaggeration, but it has certainly lost any pretense at polite warmth.

“Too late for you to come high-and-mighty,” Newton says back, equally edged. “Where were you when he was making those insinuating comments about my family’s investments, hey? And being generally unpleasant to everyone else who got here early tonight? I don’t say you can’t marry who you please, Thawne, but when you pick a penny out of the gutter you can’t forget it will need quite a bit of shine.”

Barry stiffens. Something hot and angry coils in his stomach, and it sends angry words rushing to his tongue. He tries to swallow them back, but even biting his lip doesn’t keep them from crowding up behind his teeth.

Eobard speaks before Barry can lose control and let anything loose. He sounds colder than ever, almost outright haughty, but also almost, incredibly, _bored._ If Barry couldn’t feel the tendons on Eobard’s forearm standing out in cordlike tension under his hand, he would think Eobard is _calm._

“It pains me to say it, Newton – ” and the omission of the _doctor_ , the honorific, is an insult all its own – “but your eyes must be failing you. My husband and I arrived only minutes before the performance, after enjoying a late dinner. You have confused him with someone else.”

Newton almost swells with outrage. “I know what I saw and I know what he said,” he hisses. “Unless you’re going to tell me he has an identical twin brother – ”

The other man goes on, but Barry doesn’t hear a word. Something buzzes in his ears and there’s a faint grey gathering at the edge of his vision.

“But I have a restraining order,” Barry hears himself saying incredulously. “He’s not supposed to – ”

Eobard’s arm slides out from beneath Barry’s hand; Barry reels, briefly, before it reappears around Barry’s waist. Barry leans on it gratefully. On Eobard. He blinks rapidly, clearing the grey, but it doesn’t quite help with the buzzing noise.

Dr. Newton, whose title, Barry belatedly recalls, is actually from a medical degree, is looking like Barry with something like concern. “I – I beg your pardon, Mr. Thawne – are you saying you actually _do_ have an identical twin brother?” He looks between Barry and Eobard and his eyes widen. “Good heavens. I – bless my soul.”

“My husband has no brother,” Eobard says sharply, which has at least three different meanings that Barry can think of, and probably twelve more to blueblood ears – Barry’s married, his old familial relationships dissolved; Barry had come to marriage as an Allen and a West, by definition no relation to any Cobalt; the blood tie between Barry and the Cobalts had never been proved and so does not legally exist. And it probably also means that Barry should _shut up_. Which he does, and gratefully. The buzzing is dying down, but Barry still feels cold and shaky.

He feels _afraid_. There’s no point trying to dance around it by just naming the physical symptoms of fear and then leaving the rest unsaid. Barry has – not _forgotten_ Malcolm, exactly – but he’s let Malcolm slide out of the forefront of his mind, and gladly. Once the contract had been approved by the court, once the restraining order had been filed, Barry had spent an entire morning nearly limp with relief. Then he’d gotten up and thrown himself into planning his wedding. What with one thing and another, he’d gotten busy enough to forget how afraid he’d been, at the end. And he’d felt _safe_ , with Eobard. Surely Malcolm couldn’t do anything to Barry once Barry had become a Thawne.

Eobard and Newton have exchanged a few short, sharp sentences – something that had the feel of a not-quite-apology, and a not-quite-acceptance, and a mutual agreement that the matter was best forgotten, not that that’s worth anything – and then Eobard is steering Barry back up the stairs. Barry climbs mechanically. He feels as if the entire concourse below is full of people staring up at him, whispering maliciously behind his back. The light from the chandeliers is glittering in his eyes. It’s relief to be back in their box again, with only the dim light burning, giving just enough illumination to avoid tripping and no more. Barry sinks back into his chair and the friendly shadows with relief.

Eobard has his phone out and to his ear, mouth tense. Then, abruptly, he says into it, “Malcolm Cobalt may have been at the Opera House tonight. Find out if he still is and if he’s breaking the terms of his restraining order.” There’s a pause. “Yes. No, we’ll finish the performance. If it’s as I suspect…” Another pause. “Exactly,” Eobard says, tone grim.

Barry makes himself lift his head up and look at Eobard. A suspicion is beginning to slither through his mind, and he sees the same reflected in Eobard’s face.

“Call me if you – yes. Thank you. Goodbye.” Eobard puts his phone back in his pocket. “We’ll get the feed from the security cameras and see if Malcolm violated the order.”

“He didn’t,” Barry says flatly. “This is a public building. And we were late. He came early, spent some time ruining my reputation, and then left right before we arrived.”

“How would he know when we were arriving?” Eobard doesn’t ask the question as if he disagrees.

“Society blogs.” Barry shakes his head. “There must be a dozen blogs devoted to you personally, Eobard. Tracking your movements. They’d have posted within seconds of us leaving the house, and again when we arrived here. I suppose I’ll have my own clique soon enough. All Malcolm has to do is follow the right blogs, and we might as well be wearing a GPS tracker whenever we’re in public.”

“Barry – ”

“And he’ll keep doing it. Won’t he.”

Eobard doesn’t answer immediately. Barry watches the planes of Eobard’s face set into something hard and angry and has all the answer he needs.

“None of our close allies or friends are here tonight,” Eobard says after a moment. “If they had, they would have spotted the difference immediately. Malcolm can’t be tracking blogs for _everyone_ affiliated with our family. Sooner or later he’ll get unlucky.”

“And what? If Malcolm sees someone who can tell us apart, he’ll just leave again. Or be pleasant. There’s no law against going to a public event and being rude or nice or – or turning handstands, if he wants. As long as I’m not there. And I can’t be everywhere.” Barry’s hands hurt; he looks down to see that he’s been clasping them tightly together, and the knuckles are starting to turn white. He pulls them apart and shakes them through the tingles.

He’s afraid again, but not the way he’d been before. Moments ago, in the concourse, Barry had felt the old fear: the fear that Malcolm would gain control of Barry somehow and destroy him, just crush the light and the life out of him and leave Barry a broken husk. Now the fear is shifting. Malcolm can’t do that anymore. Barry is safely married, a Thawne. Malcolm had consented to the marriage. Accepted a settlement. Even if a blood tie were proved, it would change nothing, not anymore.

But Malcolm, it seems, has found another, subtler way of taking revenge. He won’t ruin Barry’s life. He’ll ruin Barry’s reputation. And Eobard’s. And, by extension, the reputation of every Thawne in Central City. Eobard’s last name is his most prized possession. What will he do, what will he think, when Malcolm starts dragging it through the mud? How will Eobard’s feelings towards Barry change, when Eobard realizes that their marriage is going to be the downfall of everything Eobard holds dear?

“Can’t we prevent him from – isn’t it libel or slander or something, for him to impersonate me and then say or do terrible things?” Barry asks desperately.

Eobard shakes his head. “I doubt he’s calling himself by your name or doing anything that would explicitly promote the impression that he’s you,” he says heavily. “Legal will review any footage, but – I imagine he simply dressed the part, approached people, and let them think as they would.”

Another memory, this one in Malcolm’s sneering tones. _The law can’t specify what to call someone, Ms. Gideon._

Barry puts his hands over his mouth to stifle a cry. Malcolm had probably been planning this from the moment he’d stalked out of the brunch restaurant, proposed marriage contract in hand. He’s a lawyer. He’s shown, time and again, that he knows how to game the system. Not in the same way a blueblood would, no. Where Eobard and his ilk are finesse and subtlety, Malcolm is a sledgehammer through glass. But a sledgehammer with the weight of law and tradition and society behind him.

The lights in the house flash. The curtain will be lifted soon on Act 3.

“I want to go home,” Barry says. It’s foolish, to think Malcolm’s spite can’t reach him behind the walls of Eobard’s house. If Eobard’s name is no shield, neither will Eobard’s house be. But at least in Eobard’s house Barry has been warm and comforted and safe. The opera house, by contrast, makes him feel exposed. Vulnerable.

But Eobard shakes his head slowly. “If you can manage it, we’d much better stay,” he says gently. “The terms of your restraining order mean that Malcolm can’t enter the building while you’re here. He got around it earlier by arriving before we did and leaving when we arrived. He can’t be causing mischief anywhere else right now, because we’re still here, and known to be so. But if we leave and the box is seen to be empty, he could come back. Or go anywhere else he chooses, and begin again.”

“But the same thing will just happen after the performance!” Barry wraps his arms around himself and shivers. “There will be a social hour, you said so – he can come back after we leave, unless we stay until the Opera closes – ” Barry’s voice trails off as Eobard nods.

“I think it would be best,” Eobard says, still gently. “We can put out that you’ve taken sick, afterwards, and cry off any invitations and appearances for the next few days. That will keep Malcolm from doing any more harm while we figure out what’s to be done. But tonight – ”

“Suppose we say I’m sick now, and we have to go home right away. Eobard, _please_ ,” Barry says, shamelessly begging.

“Barry – think,” Eobard implores, coming over to Barry and sitting next to him, reaching out to hold him. “The rumor wouldn’t spread fast enough – look, there go the lights.” Indeed, the house lights have just gone down. “No one will see us leave; no one will pinpoint the exact time. He could come back, and people will just think that you got sick later on in the evening.”

Eobard’s right. Barry knows he’s right. But the thought of it – staying through the end of the performance, and being visible in the box – then going downstairs on Eobard’s arm, and talking to everyone, and being polite, and never knowing which of them are secretly calling him a two-faced hypocrite because of something Malcolm had said to them earlier this evening –

But Eobard is asking Barry to stay. It’s Eobard’s name that Malcolm is bent on destroying. Because Barry had let Eobard marry him. Because Barry had put Eobard and his entire family in the line of fire, too.

Yesterday at sundown Barry had stood in a cathedral and sworn, in front of God and everyone, to honor Eobard. That includes Eobard’s family name. Barry owes Eobard this. Even if Malcolm succeeds in destroying Eobard’s love for Barry, Barry will still owe Eobard this, least of all. Because Barry is – he swallows past the lump in his throat – an _honorable_ man.

“I can stay,” Barry whispers, hoping like hell he’s telling the truth.

Eobard kisses the top of Barry’s head. “I know you can,” he says fiercely, hugging Barry, as if Eobard can transmit strength through his arms alone.

Barry tucks his head beneath Eobard’s jaw, shameless in his anguish and fear. “Do I have to pay attention to the performance?”

“Not a bit,” Eobard promises. He nudges his chair closer to Barry. “Would you like – ”

“Oh yes, God, please,” Barry says fervently, not even letting Eobard finish.

Eobard nods. He lays a hand on the back of Barry’s neck, heavy and real and perfect. Barry spends the rest of the performance with his cheek pillowed on Eobard’s thigh, blocking out the world, and trying not to think about how close he is to losing everything.


	18. Chapter 18

The post-opera social hour is an ordeal even for Eobard, who had cut his teeth in events of this sort. Barry is in considerably worse shape. He’d dozed some during the second half of _La Boheme_ , but whatever good that might have done him had been lost in the half-second after waking, when Barry had sat bolt upright, disoriented and reflexively afraid.

No one else actually comes out and says anything about Barry’s supposed bad behavior earlier – Thaddeus Newton is from an eccentric family, and his manners are unusually blunt – but Eobard tracks those whom Cobalt had poisoned by the flicker of their eyelashes when they speak a coolly polite greeting, by the curl of their lip when they smile, by the way their shoulders pull back and tilt ever so slightly away. The nature of Cobalt’s attack had rendered Cobalt unable to choose his targets with any precision, and the people who arrive early to the pre-opera social hour tend to be the people who need social interaction the most – that is, the people most tenuously on the edge of the blueblood sphere, who depend on the good opinion of others for their continued tenure at the highest levels of society. Exactly the sort of people who would otherwise be most inclined to forget Barry’s origins in order to curry his favor. Cobalt’s behavior leaves them wary and skittish, but Eobard presses his social advantage to extend conversations, and leaves them – if not outright ready to let bygones be bygones – at least cautiously hopeful that their earlier conversations with the man they’d thought was Eobard’s husband would not be representative of their dealings with the family as a whole.

It makes Eobard’s teeth grind to know that they’re thinking, as they walk away, _Well, at least Thawne won’t let his husband get away with that kind of behavior._ It’s what Eobard had wanted them to think, but only because it’s the only thing they’ll believe without considerably more in the way of smoothing matters over.

They stay until the lights dim and there’s a general movement towards the coat check. The racks are as bare of garments as the trees outside are of leaves. Eobard has already texted instructions to their driver. James knows his job well, and maneuvers brilliantly to be the last vehicle in line. Eobard and Barry stand outside, chatting to the remaining couples, until they are the only ones left. Only then can they climb into their own vehicle.

Eobard leans back against the smooth leather, already warmed, and sighs. Barry doesn’t even pretend that he’s going to sit in his own seat: he presses up against Eobard and puts his head on Eobard’s shoulder. Eobard briefly thinks of their seatbelts, and then just as quickly dismisses the thought.

“At this time of night it should only take us half an hour to get home,” Eobard says instead.

“Tell me you’ve thought of something we can do about Malcolm,” Barry says, ignoring the overture towards small, irrelevant, mind-clearing chatter.

“I have a few ideas, but nothing solid.” An expansion to the restraining order will do little. Deploying a social dragnet – coordinating attendance at social functions among family and allies to suppress opportunities for Malcolm’s mischief – has more promise in effectiveness, but can’t be kept up for long. Ramping up public high-profile appearances to cement new allies? Barry won’t be able to sustain that pace, and there are drawbacks to rushing into alliances with families too quickly.

“Gideon is working on the legal side,” Eobard says instead. “I’ll spread the word through our family and allies. Tomorrow, if you’re up for it, we’ll hold a brainstorming session. We know a lot of smart people, Barry. Someone will think of something.”

“Can we hold it at the house?”

Barry’s words come out slurred. He’s exhausted, Eobard sees with sympathy, and wraps an arm around Barry’s waist to help him stay upright. “Certainly. The dining room’s large enough for a small council. We’ll want to start small, anyway. Meloni, Tina – Bruce is back in Gotham by now – West, of course – ”

“Hartley and Cisco,” Barry says.

“That’s letting it out of the family,” Eobard says dubiously.

“So’s Tina.” Barry yawns. “Allies.”

“Allies,” Eobard agrees. “Very well.”

“Can I – ” Barry starts, interrupting himself with another yawn.

“There’s nothing else to be done right now,” Eobard says. “Nor the rest of tonight. Go to sleep; I’ll wake you up when we’re home.”

Barry nods sleepy agreement. He doesn’t speak again, but his breathing doesn’t change, and Eobard suspects he isn’t finding any rest.

* * *

Barry does eventually doze off, somewhere around when they’re turning down Park Row to pick up the highway out of town, and he resists waking when Eobard nudges him. Eobard ends up half-carrying his husband to bed. Barry looks pale and tired, even in the soft lighting of his room, the warm colors Iris had chosen for Barry. Eobard makes sure there’s an extra comforter on the bed and doesn’t see the way Barry curls unhappily around the empty space at his side where Eobard isn’t.

Eobard himself sits up a while longer, sending emails – it’s far too late to call, but he’ll follow up in the morning and call then, as necessary – and receiving an update from Gideon. _It’s as you suspected. We did pull the footage, and there’s no explicit impersonation. Cobalt consulted his phone frequently during the evening and left ten minutes before you arrived. James is checking the car for tracking devices, but Mr. Thawne’s suggestion of Society blogs is unfortunately probable._

_As far as the other matter is concerned,_ Gideon goes on, _Mr. Thawne’s admission re: having a twin brother, in Dr. Newton’s hearing, may not be as large a concern as you fear. In fact I suspect there may be an opening here, created by your marriage. Allow me to finish checking the relevant case law on this topic. I will update you tomorrow._

That gives Eobard hope. Gideon is the sharpest legal mind he’s ever encountered. She’s gotten him out of more than one tight spot, and she’s bested Cobalt before on the field of battle. Eobard goes to bed with a lighter heart than he would have thought possible an hour ago.

He’s woken abruptly in the middle of the night by the sense that something is wrong. There’s nothing moving in the room – at least nothing that Eobard can see – but as Eobard lies still, senses straining, noise begins to filter into his ears. He sits up, trying to get a better sense of it, and realizes it’s coming from Barry’s suite.

The door between their bedrooms is ajar. No doubt the servants who had made up the rooms had thought their newlywed masters would want to enjoy congress on what is, after all, only the second night of their married lives. For that matter, if asked earlier, Eobard would have agreed with them. No one had predicted Malcolm Cobalt appearing at the opera and killing the mood.

There’s a nightlight burning in Barry’s bathroom, and the door to the bathroom is open as well, so the light spills in and illuminates the bed. Barry is twisting and turning in bed. He’s still asleep, but he’s unmistakeably the source of the soft anguished noises that had woken Eobard.

Eobard indulges himself for a moment in thinking vicious, bloody thoughts about what he’d like to do to Malcolm Cobalt, if the clock were to turn back two hundred years to a time when physical retaliation for social insults had still been tolerated – tacitly, if not legally. Only a moment. Then he goes over to the bed and puts his hand on Barry’s shoulder.

“Wake up,” Eobard murmurs, shaking Barry very gently. “It’s only a dream, wake up.”

Barry does wake up then, rolling onto his back with a gasp, eyes flying open. There’s a moment when Barry is still visibly caught in the grip of the dream, and he looks more afraid than ever. Then Barry blinks and relaxes back into the pillows with another gasp.

“You were having a bad dream,” Eobard says.

“Are you sure I’ve woken up?” Barry whispers.

Eobard pulls his hand back, all too aware of what Barry means. “I don’t know yet.”

“Wait,” Barry says. “Don’t go.”

Eobard hesitates. Barry sits up and reaches for Eobard, this time, taking hold of Eobard’s wrists and tugging.

“This bed is too big for me by myself,” Barry says plaintively. He looks around, a faint crease appearing between his eyebrows, only visible in the dim light as a deepening shadow. “Why did you want me here tonight? I wanted to stay with you.”

“I’m sorry,” Eobard says, confounded. “I – I wasn’t thinking. I just assumed.” Where else should Barry sleep but in his own bed? They weren’t going to be having any kind of sex tonight, after all. He’d forgotten that in Barry’s world, spouses share beds as a matter of course, independent of carnal desires. He casts about for something to soothe Barry and asks, “Would you like to come join me?”

“Don’t want to move.” Barry slides back, but doesn’t let go of Eobard, so that Eobard is forced to bend somewhat. “Get in?”

“All right,” Eobard says after a moment. He wonders fleetingly if _he’s_ dreaming. But it doesn’t really matter if he is or not. Either way, the right answer – both in terms of duty and his own desires – is the same. He tugs his wrists free of Barry’s long enough to turn back the comforter and slide in.

“That’s more like it,” Barry murmurs, snuggling up to Eobard. Barry is a cuddler, it seems, at least after sex or in moments of great emotional distress. Eobard will have to remember that. He finds that he quite likes having Barry in his arms, in private where no one can see. And Barry, despite being taller, wiggles determinedly until he wedges himself against Eobard as the little spoon.

Eobard kisses the top of Barry’s head, the only place his lips can reach. Something about the quiet, private intimacy of the moment loosens his tongue, and he says, unprompted, “I love you.”

Barry shivers. “Good,” he says fiercely.

Something about this reaction strikes Eobard as odd. But before he can gather his thoughts to probe, Barry’s breathing evens out. Eobard hesitates, loathe to rouse him.

It will keep till morning, Eobard decides. Then his own eyes slip closed, and don’t reopen.

* * *

The next morning dawns cloudy and grey. The air itself seems to take on a subdued quality. Eobard pulls out his smartphone as soon as Barry has shuffled, yawning and zombie-like, into his bathroom. Most people have emailed him back already. He notes the lack of response from Joseph West with resignation. Eobard doesn’t particularly  _want_ to call the man directly and confess to having already exposed West’s former son to social ridicule. But he’s never allowed himself to shirk an unpleasant duty, so Eobard takes his phone back to his room, closes the door, and makes the call.

They go down for breakfast together. Eobard looks up from his grapefruit to see Barry pushing his strawberry crepes around on his plate. Their syrup is soaking into a corner of his napkin. Barry’s staring down, but not as if he’s actually looking at them.

Eobard clears his throat. “Gideon says she’s working on something,” he offers.

Barry looks up. “Yeah? That’s good.”

“She’s very good at this.”

Barry nods. “I know.”

He returns to staring at his crepes. Eobard abruptly loses his taste for grapefruit.

“Want to go sit on the couch and watch old movies until everyone comes over this afternoon?” he suggests, because there’s nothing useful he can think of doing until the others arrive this afternoon, and the stretched-out tension in Barry’s frame pricks at him, until it makes Eobard want to go out and commit violence.

“You mean like Hitchcock?” Barry asks doubtfully.

“I mean like _The Day the Earth Stood Still,_ ” Eobard says.

One corner of Barry’s lips tugs up, and Eobard immediately counts it a victory.

The TV room is in the back of the house. It’s separate from the sitting room and the den where they’d played chess yesterday. Eobard believes in keeping different types of entertainment separated. The sitting room is for entertaining formal visitors. The den is for family and friends, for conversation and chess. The TV room is for TV. The couch in here has attached ottomans and is just wide enough for two, though most nights Eobard is here alone. Meloni and Eddie are the most common other visitors. There are comfortable armchairs for when they come over. Eobard settles into the well-worn groove of the couch and immediately feels his shoulders relax.

Eobard knows himself to have many quirks, and this is one of them: he tends to nest into whatever spaces are defined as his. His bedroom, his office. His couch in his TV room. The side table holds an eclectic mix of things he likes to have near while watching movies. The remote. A tablet, for looking up actors and reading trivia. A sweater. It gets cold in here; the room is at the back of the house, and somewhat exposed. A fireplace would solve that problem, but he finds the flickering lights distracting when he’s trying to watch movies.

Barry sits gingerly on the ottomon, relaxing somewhat when Eobard doesn’t give any indication that he’s unwelcome. “A bit small for two,” he ventures dubiously.

“The better to cuddle with you, my dear,” Eobard says, and Barry laughs.

“I thought you were supposed to be the hero of this story.”

“No,” Eobard murmurs, half-distracted by the entertainment system turning on. “That’s your role.”

Barry worries his lower lip between his teeth. “Eobard,” he says in a rush, “I’m so sorry about what Malcolm is doing. I know your last name is very important to you, and – and there are a lot of people depending on you. I’ll do whatever you can think of that will help, I promise.”

Eobard pauses. Then he sets the remote back down on the side table and turns to Barry, giving his husband his full attention.

“My last name is important to me,” Eobard says, because it’s true, and because pretending otherwise would be disingenuous and serve neither of them. “But not because it is an end unto itself. Because it is a means. It opens doors to happiness for everyone who bears it. Yes, my family depends on me. And _you_ are my family, now, too. I care about my last name because I want it to bring you happiness.”

Barry blinks several times very rapidly. “I don’t want to be the downfall of the rest of your family,” he says, voice wavering. “I – the first time we met, you told me – ”

“Twenty-four Thawnes from the ages of two to ninety-one,” Eobard recalls.

“And all of them under your protection.” Barry looks down, away from Eobard, but not before Eobard sees the guilt written all over his expressive face. Because, Eobard sees suddenly, he thinks Malcolm Cobalt is somehow his fault. Because he thinks that their marriage has set the Thawne family on the road to ruin.

“Twenty-five,” Eobard says firmly.

“What?”

“Twenty- _five_ Thawnes,” Eobard insists. He reaches across and tugs Barry’s hands apart; Barry’s clasping them tightly again, in that way he has that Eobard hates to see, because he hates to see Barry hurt at all, and that doesn’t change just because it’s Barry doing the hurting. “You’re not giving up on me already?” Eobard tries to make it sound light. He hears the undercurrent of worry in his voice and has to control the urge to wince.

But maybe it’s what Barry needed to hear, because he looks up at Eobard with sudden dismay. “That’s not what I meant,” he says.

“What is?” Eobard does better with controlling his voice, this time.

“I don’t want to be the cause of you losing something you value,” Barry says quietly. “I don’t want to be an _either-or_ choice for you.”

Eobard swallows, throat tight. “Then don’t give up,” he says, when he manages to get it unstuck at last. “Help me beat Cobalt, and we can have it all.”

Barry keeps looking at Eobard, eyes roving over Eobard’s face, the set of his shoulders, their hands still joined from where Eobard had tugged Barry’s apart and then neglected to let go. Barry’s looking for something, that much is clear. Eobard doesn’t know what it is, but he sits as still as he can and lets Barry search, until at last Barry lets out a long slow breath and whispers, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Eobard repeats. It’s a vow of its own, all unto itself. He finds himself shivering briefly – not from cold, but from the brush of something dangerous. Something that has passed them by this time, but only just barely.

Barry comes closer, until he’s next to Eobard on the couch, rather than sitting at its foot. He lays his head on Eobard’s shoulder, just as he’d done last night, in the car on their way home from the opera. Eobard reaches down, taking advantage of his long arms to untuck the blanket neatly folded at their feet and throw it over their lower bodies. Then he picks up the remote again. But as Eobard flips over to the on-demand channel, he finds himself sliding an arm around Barry’s shoulders and manipulating the entertainment center one-handed. He needs Barry close more than he needs efficiency, right now. And his mind, his greatest strength and his greatest curse, keeps turning Barry’s guilt over. Looking for its angles. Looking for its sources.

“I know it’s not easy being my husband,” Eobard says slowly, paging through the list of movies available more by rote than because he’s actually seeing them. “I know it’s not what you’re used to. But I love you. I don’t care about the rest.”

There’s a warm huff of breath on Eobard’s neck as Barry exhales. “I promised,” he says at last. “For better or for worse, remember?”

“Right,” Eobard says. His voice is unaccountably thick; he clears his throat and picks a movie at random. “ _Somewhere in Time?”_

“Sure,” Barry says, and Eobard turns it on and settles in with his husband.

* * *

They watch  _Somewhere in Time,_ which ends with Eobard handing Barry the tissue box as Barry sobs unashamedly through the finale. There follows some kissing, which is followed by some fondling, which ends with both of them warm and sated on the couch, and a real smile on Barry’s face, however fleeting.

“Another?” Eobard asks, propping himself up on one elbow and smiling back down at that fleeting, precious curve of lips.

Barry looks up at Eobard through his eyelashes, a move that _must_ be deliberately meant to entice. “Do you mean another movie, or another…?”

Eobard dips his head, presses a kiss to the place under Barry’s ear that makes his husband squirm. “Listener’s choice,” he purrs.

The doorbell rings, shattering the moment. Barry jumps, and not because Eobard has kissed him in a sensitive place.

Eobard’s instinctive move to get off the couch and go answer the door is stifled when his housekeeper moves briskly by, giving him an offended look from the doorway as she goes. The old servants, the one who have been here since the house had been built and remember Eobard when he’d been a child, are perennially dissatisfied by his degree of independence. Feudalism is alive and well, and it doesn’t only come from the blueblood ranks. Eobard huffs out a laugh. Then he nudges Barry, and the two of them sit up and begin trying to make themselves look as if they haven’t just been necking on a sofa.

Their efforts is rewarded when Gideon appears in the doorway to the TV room, briefcase in hand. “Good morning, Dr. Thawne, Mr. Thawne,” she says serenely. “Is now a good time for some good news?”

“Now’s _great,_ ” Barry says eagerly. The cloud of worry around him tangibly lightens, and even the lights suddenly seem brighter. “Come on in, tell us everything!”

Eobard, too, sits up straighter. Gideon is as well put together as if she’s in the office; suit, hair, and accessories are all perfectly correct. But more than that, she has an air of unruffled calmness that Eobard knows of old. Gideon is firmly in control of the situation. She’s never been wrong before. When Gideon is like this, Eobard may be confident that matters are about to turn out for the better.

With that surety in hand, Eobard remembers his manners. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks, gesturing Gideon to one of the comfortable armchairs the room features and glancing behind her to see his housekeeper hovering, waiting for just such a request.

“Coffee, please,” Gideon says. Her voice and step are brisk, but there are faint bluish shadows beneath her eyes that testify to a sleepless night. “Or rather espresso. Do you have any of that pumpkin spice blend left from the fall season?”

The housekeeper is signaling affirmatively behind Gideon’s back. “I think we may,” Eobard says. To Ruth: “And some refreshments, please.” Ruth nods and vanishes back into the kitchen.

Barry looks like he’s about to jump back to asking Gideon about what she’s found. Eobard forestalls him by beginning to talk about potential resorts where a hard-working lawyer might enjoy her well-earned all-expenses-paid time off. Gideon, it transpires, has her eye on a trip to Bali. Barry glances back and forth between them as they talk, but does bestir himself to ask a few polite questions about the resort Gideon’s sister Samantha visited last summer, which she had apparently praised to the high heavens.

“This spring, perhaps,” Gideon says. “After the fiscal year closes I think you can do without me for two weeks.”

“It will be misery,” Eobard says, only partly joking, “but I’ll do without you for four.”

“You haven’t even heard what I have to say yet,” Gideon replies lightly. Her eyes are twinkling.

Barry looks like he’s about to explode with the questions he hasn’t asked yet. It’s probably fortunate for all concerned that Ruth bustles in at this juncture, bringing Gideon a steaming cup that smells delightfully of spices and a tray with finger sandwiches and light pastries. Ruth sets it all down, glances around the room to make sure nothing else is needed, and vanishes again with her usual quiet efficiency.

Gideon takes a sip of her espresso and sighs happily. Eobard helps her to a croissant. Gideon takes a polite bite, then sets it aside and reaches for her briefcase.

“Malcolm Cobalt,” she begins, “is a fool.”

“No argument here,” Barry mutters.

“Mr. Thawne, last night, when speaking to Dr. Newton, you tacitly – though not explicitly – stated that Malcolm Cobalt was your twin brother, implying that you acknowledged a blood tie existed between you. This is something we had previously gone to great lengths to avoid. Indeed, one of the terms of your marriage contract was that the DNA test originally intended to prove or disprove a blood relationship was never completed.”

Barry pales. “I didn’t even realize,” he says, horrified.

Gideon moves one hand in a negating gesture. “Dr. Thawne was concerned about it as well, which is why he brought it to my attention. You should both be glad it happened, because it set me down exactly the right path.” She pulls out a sheaf of paper. The marriage contract between the Thawnes and the Wests, concerning one Eobard Thawne and Barry Allen (West), and addenda.

“Do you know how a contract is legalized?” Gideon begins by asking.

“You file it, right?” Barry asks. “The court legalizes it.”

Gideon shakes her head. “The court is a witness,” she says, “and their involvement makes it considerably easier to enforce the contract, should one of the parties default. But contract law in this country comes from contract law in England, which comes from the original codification of the common-law contract. In short, a contract becomes enforceable when three conditions are met.” She holds up one finger. “The first party informs the second party of the terms of the contract.” Another finger. “The second party informs the first party of their acceptance.” A third finger. “The first party acknowledges that the second party has accepted the terms.”

“Okay?” Barry says, a questioning note in his voice. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“Your original marriage contract was between the Thawne and the West families. The Cobalt family was to receive a payment, in recognition of their claim, yes. But since the Cobalt family never _had_ you, Barry, they couldn’t give you away. The contract with their family was separate, though the two were filed together and ruled on together. Cobalt’s involvement was limited to the acceptance of a sum of money in exchange for withdrawing both his request for a DNA test and his lien against Eddie and Iris’ wedding. With me so far?”

“Cobalt withdrawing his request for the DNA test doesn’t actually affirm that you _aren’t_ related,” Eobard says to Barry. “If you were to go around making statements that you _were_ related, it could reopen the whole matter again. That’s what I was worried about.”

“Exactly,” Gideon says. “But then Cobalt offered two addenda.”

“My name change, and the examination,” Barry says.

“The examination is neither here nor there – a standard form. But the name change is significantly more meaningful.” Gideon taps the piece of paper. “Put simply – it’s the second link in the chain. By offering a _substantive_ rider to your marriage contract – a standard that the refusal to consent to an affidavit does not meet – Cobalt transforms himself and his family from passive beneficiaries of the contract to active participants in it.”

“But just in that one part,” Barry protests.

Gideon shakes her head. “Marriage contract provisions aren’t generally severable. If you’re bound by one, you’re bound by them all. We went to some particular legal contortions to separate out the settlement with the Cobalt family, because we believed that they wouldn’t accept the offer otherwise. Contortions which have been completely undone by this particular rider.”

“Just give me the bottom line,” Barry begs.

“By requiring you to change your name, Cobalt became fully involved in all provisions of the contract and is bound by them. We can prove all three steps. He was informed of the contract – that happened at brunch, there’s photographic evidence that was in all the major papers. He acknowledged that he was informed when he offered the rider. And we acknowledged his acceptance of the terms when we agreed to the name change.”

The pieces fall into place. “He’s bound,” Eobard says in astonishment. “Cobalt gave Barry up for marriage just as surely as West did.”

“And thus it makes absolutely no difference whether or not Mr. Thawne has a blood relationship with Malcolm Cobalt,” Gideon says.

“But what _good_ does that do?” Frustration is etched into every line of Barry’s face. “So it doesn’t matter that we’re brothers; so what? How does that help the fact that Malcolm and I look enough alike that casual acquaintances can’t tell us apart, and he’s using that fact to ruin my reputation?”

Gideon’s smile becomes shark-like. “You complete the DNA test,” Gideon says. “I believe the sample is still held in STAR Labs?”

“It is,” Eobard says, feeling his own smile stretch to match.

“Once it comes back positive, you make a few phone calls, and the rest will take care of itself.” Gideon leans back in her chair and reaches for her espresso. To Barry she says, “Cobalt won’t be able to impersonate you when everyone is talking about how he’s your long-lost twin brother. The first thing anyone who meets either of you will do is ask ‘which twin are you?’. And if Cobalt lies, we prosecute.”

“We tell everyone I have a twin brother,” Barry says blankly.

“Yes.”

“And Malcolm can’t use that to gain control of me?”

“Blood ties end at the family border,” Eobard says. Relief is bubbling up in him; he smiles at Barry. “Your marriage to me redefined your family relationship.”

“If Cobalt hadn’t consented to the marriage, he’d still have a claim,” Gideon says. “Much as he retained a claim to you despite your legal adoption into the West family. But this name-change addendum constitutes consent. And so Cobalt is bound.”

“Wait,” Eobard says, remembering. “We agreed to drop the DNA test.”

Gideon’s smile turns positively beatific. “No, _Cobalt_ agreed to drop his _demand_ for the DNA test,” she says happily, pulling out the relevant sheet of paper and showing it to them both. “Disposal of the sample was never explicitly conditioned for. Nor was it stipulated that the DNA test could _not_ occur. Merely that it was not _required_ to occur. We are at liberty to perform it if we place. Cobalt consented twice, first when he filed the lien and secondly when he gave the sample.”

“I’ll go do it myself,” Barry says, starting to stand up. “I’ll do it right now – ”

Eobard restrains him. “No, wait – we don’t want there to be any accusations of bias.”

“Quite correct,” Gideon says. “I would advise that the original scientist stipulated – Mr. Rathaway, that would be – perform the test.”

“Judge Rathaway will be sure to take his word for it,” Eobard says knowingly.

“But of course.” Gideon has opened her eyes very wide and looks very innocent indeed.

“Mr. Rathway is coming by later today. As are a number of others. Gideon, if you can remain, we can plan out our strategy then. We’ll need newspaper coverage – television – ”

“Did you call Iris?” Barry asks Eobard. “I’ll text her, if you didn’t – ”

“I talked to West; I assumed he’d bring his heir, but it’s as well to be sure.”

“Gentlemen,” Gideon interrupts. “Planning is excellent, but you should do nothing until the DNA tests are done.”

“Tests?” Barry catches the plural before Eobard does, looking alert. “There’s a second test?”

Gideon coughs apologetically. “Technically your marriage contract is still only provisional,” she observes carefully. “It will not be final until the DNA test proving consummation is completed. I do not advise advertising Mr. Thawne’s relationship to Mr. Cobalt until after that necessary step is taken.”

“Or else Cobalt might still find some way to get the contract voided and possibly still take Barry,” Eobard says. Growls, actually. He’s somewhat surprised at himself, but can’t find it in him to regret the sentiment.

Barry doesn’t seem to mind it, either, if the way he melts slightly into Eobard is any indication; Eobard files that away for later. Because they will _have_ a later. If not by these means, then by another. Eobard will not permit Malcolm Cobalt to ruin Eobard’s family name _or_ his marriage.

“If you have any way to speed the results, I recommend you take it,” Gideon says, which is her delicate way of saying _tell your cousin to tell Ms. Spivot to put a rush on it,_ and Eobard nods.

“Another matter to discuss at our conclave later,” Eobard says. He glances at the clock and is not surprised to discover that they’ve left noon behind quite some time ago. “Join us for lunch, Ms. Gideon, and then we can begin discussing our options as the others arrive.”

“Thank you,” Gideon says. “If I might just freshen up – ”

Ruth materializes in the doorway. “This way, madam.”

Gideon’s heels are still audible in the hallway when Barry flings himself into Eobard’s arms. He kisses Eobard frantically, uncaring of the fact that the door isn’t closed and that there’s a stranger in the house.

“Barry,” Eobard tries, “wait – ”

Barry kisses Eobard again, then pulls back finally. His eyes are wild. “I thought I was going to lose you,” he says, nonsensically.

“ _What_?”

“I thought, when Malcolm started besmirching your name – ”

“Barry!”

“I know, I know,” Barry says, “and you told me earlier that you wouldn’t, but I just – I was afraid.”

Eobard pulls Barry back in, uncaring now of who else is in the house, and kisses his husband until Barry is gasping for breath. “Don’t you _know_ how much I love you?” Eobard cries, and it’s supposed to be strident, and all it sounds is lost.

“Sometimes I think I love you too much to ever be sure,” Barry confesses. “I get scared it’s all just a hall of mirrors, and I’m only seeing what I want to see.”

“I have loved you from the beginning,” Eobard tells him. “I used to wonder how you didn’t see it – everyone else did.”

“I assume by ‘everyone else’ you mean Tina and Gideon,” Barry says with a flash of his usual self-assurance. “I still don’t speak whatever language you use with them.” He ducks his head, back to being sad. “I’ll learn, though. If you give me time.”

“I’ll give you anything you want,” Eobard says, bare and true. And Barry hears that truth. Pales, and then blushes, his lids dropping to half-mast over suddenly blazing eyes.

“Barry – ” Eobard tries, pulling back as Barry sways closer. “We – we have a guest – ”

Voices echo down the hallway. “If you’ll just step into the dining room,” Ruth is saying, a comfortably knowing edge in her voice, “I believe the master and Mr. Thawne will just be another few minutes.”

“Excellent,” Gideon replies in kind. “I have some emails I need to send before lunch. Some _long_ emails.”

Eobard freezes. Surely – surely they’re not – _conspiring_ –

Barry buries his face in Eobard’s shoulder to stop his laughter. “Well, the good news is, they care about you.”

Eobard can’t find it as amusing as Barry does; mortification is his primary emotion. Yes, everyone is already intellectually aware that Eobard and his new husband are enjoying sexual relations, but there’s a difference between the general knowledge and the explicit knowledge that, as soon as the room is empty, they’re necking like teenagers. _Uncultured_ teenagers.

“No one else minds,” Barry says, more seriously. “Can’t you tell from hearing them? They’re _glad_ we’re together.”

“Still,” Eobard says desperately.

Barry rolls his eyes, but tolerantly. “All right,” he says. “We’ll save it for tonight.” He levers himself up, then off the couch. His stomach rumbles.

“Something else agrees,” Eobard observes, using the contortions necessary to get up himself in order to cover his relief and bemusement. Most of the time Eobard’s staff are more painfully correct than _he_ , Eobard, is. The idea that they wouldn’t mind Eobard and Barry making out on the couch with a guest in the house – that they’d even connive at it with said guest – upends his worldview somewhat.

“But Eobard?” Barry pauses at the door. “Let’s go to bed early tonight?”

Eobard glances down the hallway. It’s empty. Greatly daring, he presses Barry up against the doorjamb and kisses him.

“Yes,” Eobard says when they pull apart. “Let’s.”

Barry is smiling again – a real smile. Eobard smiles back, and they go down the hall to lunch together.


	19. Chapter 19

The conclave, when assembled, shifts rapidly from a brainstorming session to a council of war. Everyone quickly grasps the core tenets of Gideon’s legal strategy and dives in to help, relying on their own particular specialty. The dining room becomes a hive of activity. Hartley and Cisco stay for the beginning, then leave for STAR Labs to get the DNA test processing and prove what everyone with eyes can see – that Malcolm and Barry are twins. West makes tracks for the CCPD, intending to personally stand over various people until the _other_ DNA test, the one proving consummation, is completed. He leaves Iris behind to assist with the press angle, and Eddie remains at her side. Tina has to excuse herself early to attend to a pressing matter with her own family. But she promises Eobard that her family’s resources are at his disposal, and hugs Barry before she leaves.

“Pictures,” Iris is muttering to herself. She’s set her laptop up on one corner of the dining room table and is already beginning to pull together a series of articles. Eddie, acting as her guy Friday, is alternating between calling Iris’ friends and allies in the publishing industry and calling Eobard’s relatives. Between Iris’ connections at the journalistic end and Eobard’s ties to the publishing companies themselves, they should have all the press they need as soon as they need it.

“Pictures?” Eobard asks, looking up from his own computer, where he’s checking on the financial end. Every _i_ on the marriage contract must be dotted and every _t_ crossed before they go public with Barry’s and Malcolm’s blood relationship. That includes making sure all the money is in the right place. It’s not just verifying that Malcolm’s compensation has been delivered. Everything from the payment of Barry’s life-price to the West family, to the accounts established and the investments settled on Barry himself, must be complete, lest Cobalt seize upon them as a pretext for invalidating the contract as a whole.

Iris looks up from her laptop. “If you were picking up an edition of the Society pages, and the story of the hour was about how someone prominent has a long-lost twin sibling, what picture would you expect to see?”

Eobard understands immediately. “A picture of said twins, side by side.”

“No,” Barry says, starting half out of his chair. He’s been going through the Social Calendar for the upcoming month, looking for events he can stand to attend and putting together a preliminary itinerary. He has a tablet propped up next to him and is teleconferencing with Ms. Baez, Eobard’s third assistant, who manages Thawne Industries’ Society presence as well as Eobard’s personal calendar. Now he taps something quickly into the chat box and then gives the others his full attention. “I don’t want to do a photo shoot. We’d have to withdraw the restraining order!”

“No one is suggesting a photo shoot,” Eobard says firmly, shooting Iris a quick look.

Iris sighs, looking briefly wistful, before inclining her head in acknowledgement. “No, that would be a bad idea. But editing something together would be dishonest.”

“Not to mention you’d get caught,” Eobard says.

Iris grins ruefully. “Yes, that too.”

Eddie, standing in the corner and gazing absently at the wallpaper while he nods along with someone on the phone, suddenly says “Yes. Thank you, good bye.” and turns back towards the table, putting his phone back in his pocket. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t have a good picture of Malcolm and Barry to run front page,” Iris says mournfully.

Eddie sits down next to her and looks over her shoulder. “The _Examiner_ wouldn’t give up the rights?”

“What?”

“It was the _Examiner_ , wasn’t it? Who ran the pictures from the brunch place?”

Iris is staring at Eddie. So is Eobard, but for an entirely different reason. He tears his gaze away and down to his laptop, minimizing the work he’d been doing in favor of pulling up the online archives of the _Central City Examiner._

There it is. Two pages down in the Society section – Eobard had wanted it buried, at least; no editor in their right mind would have consented to not running it at all, no matter who Eobard’s father had been, and Eobard hadn’t asked it. Two pages down had been as far as the _Examiner_ would go. So every blueblood in Central City will have seen this picture already. But people who _don’t_ religiously read the Society section cover to cover may have missed it. Certainly they’ll look at it differently when it’s on the _front_ page, and accompanied with a headline saying –

“LONG-LOST ALLEN TWIN REDISCOVERED IN OPAL CITY,” Barry is quoting in horror, reading from Iris’ laptop, which she has just spun around. Much of the article text below is _lorem ipsum_ , and the central photo is still missing, but the ancillary images are present. To the upper right is a baby picture of Barry, held by a beaming Nora and Henry. Below, centered and balancing out the missing shot of the adult twins together, Dr. Hugo Strange glowers out from the page, wearing an orange jumpsuit and holding a board with his name, the date, and his prisoner number on it. Completing the tetraptych, on the right side of the page and a full inch lower than the equivalent picture of baby Barry, there’s a formal shot of the Cobalt family. Eobard recognizes it instantly, though he’s never seen it before; every middle-class family seems to take one such photo every year, at their nearest mall or independent picture shop. The date at the bottom says _1995._ Malcolm is just left of center, a four-year old in a polo shirt, smile fixed, his mother Charlene’s arm around his shoulders.

“All news is local,” Iris says with the air of one quoting a proverb. “Let the Opal City papers focus on the Cobalt family. This is Central City, and – sorry, Barry –but the Allen name is what sells papers here.”

Barry looks away. Eobard longs to take his hand, but the table is too wide between them. And Iris is _right._ This story is going to take the city by storm, and not, for once, because of Barry’s association with Eobard and the Thawne family. No newspaper will pass up a chance to trot out all of their old coverage of the Allen murders. If it bleeds, it leads. And that’s before considering what reusing existing materials will save them in costs.

The thought of the personal information Iris is getting ready to make public makes Eobard’s head spin. He hates the intrusion on their privacy – Barry’s privacy. Marrying Eobard has meant giving up the anonymity of the middle class, but this is more than he’d consented to. It’s more than any blueblood consents to. Their birthday parties make the society pages, but they surround their homes with security and pay for separate entrances to public facilities for a reason. And that reason isn’t only that they like to feel special.

“Think of the blow to Cobalt’s ego,” Eddie is saying. “He came to Central City to try to make you a Cobalt. Now he’s going to leave with everyone calling him an Allen.”

“Technically he was right,” Barry says in a low, troubled voice. “I _am_ a Cobalt.”

“You’re a Thawne,” Eddie says, with a firmness in his tone that does the family name proud. Eobard feels a fierce approval. “And he’s a jackass. This is comeuppance.”

Barry still sounds worried. “Won’t he sue the paper?”

“Freedom of the press,” Iris says virtuously, spinning her laptop back around and beginning to layer text. “So you’re twins, so what? You could both be Nora’s sons.”

“Nora wasn’t the one _expecting_ twins!”

“Details,” Iris says, waving a hand airily. “Eddie, dear, will you call the _Examiner_ and negotiate for the use of those photos?”

“They’re going to want something in return,” Eddie says, already pulling out his phone.

“Offer them an interview.”

“Iris!” Barry cries.

“You’re going to have to do interviews, Barry.”

“I thought we were having a press conference.”

“That too.”

Barry looks like he wants to argue farther, but then he glances at Eobard and subsides.

Which makes Eobard frown. He’s learned already that it’s a bad sign when his husband grows quiet. “Make it a _short_ interview,” he calls to Eddie, “and the family gets review of any quotes.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to wave his hand in the air: _go practice your violin_ , that means, a family saying. Eobard’s great-aunt had had an amazingly uncanny knack of detecting when anyone in the family had been about to voluntarily practice their musical instrument, and then telling them to go do it, thereby removing the word _voluntarily_ from the equation. There’s a reason that the Thawnes had not been known as a musical family, in Emilia’s generation.

That taken care of, and Iris happily occupied, Eobard closes his own laptop’s lid and beckons to Barry. Barry looks confused but rises from the table and lets Eobard tug him out into the hall.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks carefully.

“Am I sure? Are you kidding?” Despite Barry’s words, he’s turned partly away from Eobard, arms wrapped around his chest and partially hunched over. “Malcolm’s going to drag my reputation through the mud and ruin your family name if we _don’t_ do this! Of course I want to do this!”

“But?” Eobard tries to keep his voice nonjudgmental.

Barry shakes his head. “This isn’t going to be the end of it,” he says plainly. “You’re not a cop, Eobard. You don’t know.”

Eobard could point out that Barry also technically isn’t, and had never been, a cop. Forensic scientists are a different job category entirely. He doesn’t; that’s not the point. Instead Eobard says, “You mean to say that someone like Cobalt doesn’t take defeat gracefully. He’ll use the world to get what he wants, but when the world gets in the way, he’ll burn the world down instead. He answers only to himself, and he can’t stand to be found wanting in his own eyes, so he’ll do whatever it takes to correct a perceived injustice.”

“We blocked Malcolm legally, and he moved on to social consequences,” Barry says. “Now we’re going to block him socially. I’m not afraid of giving an interview, Eobard. I’m afraid of what Malcolm will do next.”

Eobard nods. “When legal avenues are exhausted, men like Cobalt will move on to _illegal_ alternatives. I confess, the type is not entirely unknown to me, though the sort of illegalities I’m used to dealing with involve securities fraud and insider trading.”

“Malcolm is capable of worse than that.” Barry shivers.

“You’re not unprotected,” Eobard offers.

“And what about you? What about the rest of your family?”

Eobard’s smile is rueful, he knows. “We aren’t unprotected, either. Barry, think about it. All those celebrity spotting blogs, the paparazzi, the fans – there are always some who take their interest in the lifestyles of the rich and famous too far. Our houses are alarmed. Our cars are armored. Our workplaces are secured. Cobalt has gotten close to us in the past because we’ve permitted it. Once we cease to permit it, he’ll find it quite a different matter.”

“But you still aren’t – I mean, you don’t have a bodyguard.”

“Don’t I?” Eobard raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t seen Ms. Gideon in action, I suppose.”

Barry chokes. “ _Gideon?”_

“And Mr. Dorn, and Ms. Baez. For that matter, Ruth is more than a match for any intruder.”

“Yes indeed, Dr. Thawne,” Ruth says comfortably, passing by with a tray in her hands and a bustle in her step that makes her look wholly domestic and unthreatening. Eobard has seen her put three grown men on the floor in forty seconds; he is not fooled. Barry apparently has been.

“Okay,” Barry says after a few more moments of blinking. “So – do I get a personal assistant slash bodyguard now?”

Part of Eobard likes the idea, the roaring-caveman part that seems to live awfully close to the surface whenever Barry is concerned. He puts it aside firmly. Reminds himself of how constricted he had always felt when his mother had felt, for whatever reason, extra protection had been necessary. And that had been _Eobard_ feeling constricted, who had been raised to this life. Barry looks visibly unhappy just having made the suggestion. He’ll stifle.

“If you want one, I’ll arrange for it,” Eobard says instead. “But you’re around someone most of the day as it is. I had thought, rather than adding someone new, that you might be interested in self-defense lessons.”

“Like karate?” Barry looks interested.

Eobard shrugs. “Less devoted to a single style, more devoted to practicalities. You probably don’t know this, but most blueblood families keep a master of self-defense and make it part of our childrens’ extracurricular education, along with the more traditional arts like music and dance.”

Barry nods slowly, clearly thinking. “I’d like to learn,” he says eventually.

“It’s worth it for its own sake,” Eobard encourages. “I had always meant to talk to you about it, once things settled down. In the meanwhile – if you were to let one of the family cars take you to and from work, I think you’d always be behind a security cordon or with _someone_ who knows how to take care of an unwanted intruder.”

“My pod will understand if I don’t want to go out to lunch for a few weeks,” Barry says, as if to himself.

Eobard blinks. “Barry,” he says carefully. “Hartley and Caitlin are in your pod.”

Barry blinks, too. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, I hadn’t thought.”

“Hartley will have been receiving self-defense training since he could walk. Caitlin probably not long after. Cisco has probably started working with someone by now.”

“And you’ve got someone around you too,” Barry says, checking. “One of your assistants at least.”

“At least,” Eobard agrees.

“All right. That’s good.” Barry takes a deep breath, lets it out. Smiles. “I’m glad you’re taking this seriously.”

“Very seriously,” Eobard promises. “I won’t make the mistake of underestimating Cobalt.”

For some reason this makes Barry smile wider and kiss Eobard. Eobard doesn’t understand it, but he isn’t complaining.

* * *

Eddie is just getting off the phone when Eobard and Barry reenter the dining room. It turns out that the  _Central City Examiner_ is pleased to license the rights to the photos from brunch, for an interview and a photo credit prominently attached.

Iris is inclined to fuss about the credit. “It’s not as if their photographers _took_ the shots! They got them from one of the waiters!”

“Big picture,” Eobard says. “We need the photo, and they have it. Of course they charged high.”

“Easy for you to say,” Iris mutters. “You probably own stock in the _Examiner._ ”

“Part of my father’s dowry,” Eobard admits. “I inherited it after his death. The _Examiner_ is a Reid paper.”

Iris gets a gleam in her eye, hearing this. Which reminds Eobard. “I have something for you,” he adds. “Just a moment.”

Once in possession of Britt’s business card, complete with personally written invitation for _the talented Ms. West to contact me about opportunities within the Reid publishing empire_ , Iris’ objections to crediting the _Examiner_ trail off. Though she still voices one occasionally as the article takes shape beneath her fingers. Mostly, Eobard suspects, as a matter of form.

The rest of the afternoon speeds by. West calls a little after 4:30 P.M. to say that the DNA tests are both chugging along, with results forecast to be available early Tuesday morning. Hartley has already messaged Eobard; STAR Labs’ superior technology will mean the test matching Barry to the Cobalt family will be ready late Monday. They’ll need to sit on it for twenty-four hours or so to give the other test time to be completed and filed with the city, and for the marriage contract to be finalized.

Barry finishes his preliminary social calendar and signs off with Baez. He comes to sit by Eobard, peering over Eobard’s shoulder at the financial statements and asking the occasional question. By 5 P.M., Eobard has confirmation that all the money is in the right place. He’ll have to pay out several bonuses – account managers don’t usually work on Sundays, which means this falls under the “additional services as requested” clause of their contracts – but the money is negligible beside the twin concerns of Barry’s comfort and the Thawne family’s reputation.

Ruth comes in just as Eobard is closing his laptop and stretching. “How many will there be for dinner?” she asks him.

Eobard looks up questioningly. Iris is still hard at work, but Eddie seems to be at leisure; he’s reading something on his smartphone and frowning. He senses Eobard looking at him and looks up, then nudges Iris.

“Wha?” Iris pushes hair out of her face, blinking bleary-eyed at her fiancé.

“I think everything else is handled at this point,” Eddie says gently. “Do you want to stay for dinner and keep working, or go home?”

Iris shakes her head. “I _want_ a real digital editing rig,” she sighs. “Doing this on the laptop makes my back hurt. But that’s true here _or_ at home.”

That answers the question of what Eddie will be buying Iris for her birthday, but not the question about dinner. Eddie asks again: “Are you hungry?”

Iris’ stomach rumbles. “Uh,” she says weakly.

“Four for dinner,” Eobard says to Ruth.

“Better make it five,” Barry says. When Eobard turns to look at him, questioningly, Barry says, “Joe.”

Ah. Yes, that’s a fair point. It’s been half an hour since West had informed him that the tests were underway at the CCPD; he will presumably be leaving shortly, since he is not otherwise on duty. And it’s a poor reward for the man’s help to expect him to go home to an empty house and a lonely meal while Eobard monopolizes his kin.

“Five, please,” Eobard says to Ruth. She nods approvingly and bustles off. To Barry: “Will you call Mr. West, please, and extend the invitation?”

Barry raises an eyebrow. “Don’t want to call him yourself?” he asks, too knowingly. “All right.” He leans over to kiss Eobard’s cheek – an acceptable compromise between Barry’s tactile nature and Eobard’s reserve – and moves towards the door himself, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Scared of Barry’s father?” Eddie draws near Eobard and drops into the now-empty chair next to him. “Seems to be a Thawne family tradition.” He tilts his chin towards Iris, who has gone back to her laptop and seems unaware that the rest of the room exists, never mind is occupied.

“West is a good family head,” Eobard says noncommittally.

Eddie laughs. “That’s high praise, coming from you.”

Eobard shrugs. It’s earned. Joseph West may have contracted an unwise love match in his youth, but Eobard is in no position to throw stones: he’s recently had an object lesson in the pain of trying to resist what his heart had wanted. Setting that aside, there’s reason for acclaim. West has managed his family admirably. Not many heads would have been able to go from the near-poverty caused by Francine Stewart’s death to being able to fund both of his family’s children to advanced degrees, even given that both Iris and Barry had earned academic scholarships. Nor would many heads have been able to cope with taking in the traumatized scion of another family. West had been Barry’s godfather, but the Garricks had offered to take Barry, and West had, in turn, offered Barry the choice. Had used part of Nora’s money to buy the services of mental health professionals. Must have done a thousand small things more, for Barry to be the man he is today. That West is a good head is indisputable.

Eddie is leaning back in his chair, a reminiscent smile on his lips. “I was _terrified_ of him at first,” Eddie recounts. “Even before I started dating Iris. He was just so good at his job, but he had no tolerance for bullshit, you know? He wasn’t going to give me an inch more respect than I’d earned. That was a new experience for me. Everyone else on the force, even when they weren’t supposed to, they acted differently because of my last name.”

Eobard nods. He remembers, vividly, meeting Barry for the first time. The way Barry had stormed into his office and his life and refused to kowtow to Eobard just because Eobard’s name had been on the building. Had stood straight and tall in Eobard’s office and told Eobard that _Eobard_ had been in the wrong; _Eobard_ should change. Change his decision, change his position, change the system itself…

“Then I met Iris,” Eddie goes on, “and, well. I couldn’t stay away from her, even though I knew what it would cost me in Joe’s respect. I still don’t think I’ve earned it all back, but he makes me want to try.” Eddie falls silent, watching Iris, who is muttering under her breath and punctuating some sentiment with frustrated clicks of her mouse.

Eobard watches her, too, then turns to look at Eddie. Even relaxed, Eddie still has a certain poise about him. One that has been bought at the price of three generations of breeding at the highest levels of Society and a childhood of lessons at fantastic cost. It sets him apart. Marks him as different. Iris’ clothes are tailored, her jewelry understated but expensive. She is confident and self-possessed and not lacking in presence. Yet the difference between Iris and Eddie is still visible to anyone who looks. Eddie must stand out in the CCPD like a golden ornament on a silver-tinsel Christmas tree. And though gold is in general more prized than silver, when everything else is silver, the gold becomes gauche.

The West family’s values don’t prize the same set of traits that the blueblood set do. Eddie is willing to change himself entirely for Iris. Iris, to her credit, won’t let him change in ways that won’t help him settle into his new life; Eobard had assured himself of that before blessing the match. If Iris were head of the family Eobard would have many fewer worries. She will never forget, when she sees blueblood polish, that someone she loves had been cast from the same mold. But Joseph West?

“I don’t think I’m the sort of person Joseph West will ever completely respect,” Eobard says at last.

“You’re selling him too short,” Eddie insists.

Eobard shakes his head. “Your relationship with him can’t be a yardstick for mine. You will be a member of his family; you’ll answer to him. I am independent of him. Another family head – an equal.”

Eddie laughs softly. Eobard turns to him, surprised. There’s no mockery in the sound. It’s a simple expression of gladness, and Eobard doesn’t understand it.

“Six months ago you wouldn’t have acknowledged anyone an equal who wasn’t on the Social Register, even if they were head of their family,” Eddie says gently. “You’ve changed, Eo. Great-Uncle Ernest won’t like it, but I do. It’s not just that you’ve gotten something you wanted. Barry’s changed you. Like Iris changed me.”

Eobard just… stares. He has nothing to say to that. It’s true; but he doesn’t know how to admit it, even to himself.

Instead he clears his throat and reverts to safer ground. “If you ever need anything, even after your marriage – ”

“I know.” Eddie smiles. “But I’ll be fine with Joe and Iris looking out for me. Just like Barry is fine with you looking out for him.” He turns from Iris at last. Shockingly, he reaches out, putting a hand on Eobard’s shoulder. “Joe will see that.”

Eobard closes his mouth. Nods, after a moment.

Eddie looks up, past Eobard, and says, “Hey, Barry.” He takes his hand from Eobard’s shoulder and rises. “I’m in your chair. Excuse me, I’m going to go freshen up before dinner.”

Barry gives Eddie’s retreating back a suspicious look before reclaiming his chair. “Joe’s on his way,” is all he says, though. “I hope blueblood manners don’t frown on having a beer before dinner. From the sound of it, Joe’s gonna want one. I get the sense it took a lot of arm-twisting to get the tests rushed.”

“Rushed?” Eobard looks at his watch, superfluously. “They’ve had the samples for almost forty-eight hours.”

Barry shakes his head. “The labs at the CCPD are _always_ backed up, Eobard. I know why you wanted to use them, they’ll definitely be honest, but a marriage contract was never going to be a priority. Not when the other tests will be making cases against rapists and murderers. Joe must have called in a lot of favors to get them to bump us up in the queue.”

Eobard feels faintly guilty for not having realized this before. He _does_ know how resource-starved the CCPD is; as he’d told Barry on their first meeting, the Thawne Foundation funds a tenth of their budget. The fact that the Foundation’s grants account for such a large percentage says volumes about the insufficiency of the total budget. Just because Eobard has never in his life had to wait for scientific equipment to become available is no excuse for him to forget that the rest of the world doesn’t operate under the same rules.

“We are indebted,” Eobard says, meaning it entirely. “For the CCPD, there should be no difficulty in arranging a grant to open another lab. For Mr. West, something more personal would be better… any suggestions?”

“A beer,” Barry says. He sounds patiently amused. “And for the CCPD, another lab is a nice thought, but first make sure you’re not taking the money from something else that needs it more.”

“Of course.” Eobard frowns slightly. “I’m not sure there’s any beer in the house.”

“Bluebloods don’t have a drink after work?”

“We do,” Eddie says, coming back into the room, “but it’s usually scotch or whiskey. Shall I run out? I know what kind of beer Joe likes.”

“Edward Thawne!” Ruth has appeared in the doorway, and is looking scandalized.

“Thinking like a West already,” Barry teases Eddie. “I’ve only lived here two nights, and I already know that that’s not how things work in _this_ household.”

Eobard shares a conspiratorial smile with Ruth. “May I conclude that you’ve already laid in a supply of Mr. West’s preferred brew?” He doesn’t have to ask how she knows what it is: along with learning all of Barry’s preferences, Ruth will have studied the whole West family, in anticipation of events of just this kind.

“Naturally,” Ruth says calmly. “Dinner will be half an hour; unless I should hold it?”

Just then the doorbell rings, and Eobard smiles. “No, thank you, half an hour will be fine. And I think we’ll need one of those beers momentarily.”

Ruth nods. “I’ll need the dining room back, unless you plan to eat elsewhere.” Behind Ruth, Rachel hurries by, on her way to the door.

“We’ll retire to the den for a while.” Eobard glances down towards Iris, still lost in her article; Eddie goes over to her, touching her shoulder to get her attention and speaking in a quiet voice. “We could all use a break.”

Iris nods at something Eddie says and stands up, closing the lid to her laptop and picking it up. In the hallway, there’s the bustle of West being ushered in and relieved of his outerwear. Barry picks Eobard’s laptop up for him and nudges his chair back into the table.

A few moments sees West, Barry, and Eobard settled in the den. The laptops are temporarily stowed, everyone acquiescing to Eobard’s suggestion of a break. He’s turned the fireplace on. Iris and Eddie have gone down the hall to one of the spare bedrooms. Iris had swayed on her feet when she’d tried to stand, and complained of a blinding headache. “Too much staring at tiny text on a tiny screen,” Eddie had diagnosed, and taken her down the hallway to lie down in dark and quiet until dinner, raiding the bathroom for painkillers along the way. Eddie hasn’t reappeared since. No one has seen fit to comment on his absence.

Eobard had claimed his usual seat without thinking. This had led to an awkward moment when Barry had studied the extra-wide armchair and decided that, yes, there is room for him on there. Which is true from a strict physics sense, but Eobard is hyperaware of West sitting in another such armchair, beer open on a coaster next to him, while Barry is pressed up against Eobard’s side far, _far_ closer than manners would usually dictate.

West hadn’t turned a hair. Different standards. He’d shown more emotion when Eobard had opted for scotch instead of beer. That had earned Eobard some ribbing on the subject of snooty blueblood habits that, while clearly friendly, had been more rough-edged than Eobard is used to. He’d done his best to respond in kind. Barry had seemed pleased, and West had laughed. That must count for something.

The conversation hasn’t picked up much after that topic had lagged. Eobard is considering possible starters that might lead into a discussion of how Eobard might meet the debt he owes West, given that West has expended favors to expedite their marriage contract. West beats him to the punch.

“I’m concerned about possible escalation from Cobalt, after we acknowledge his relationship to Barry,” West says plainly.

“We talked about it already, Joe,” Barry says before Eobard can answer. “Apparently everyone on Eobard’s staff basically _is_ a bodyguard.”

West turns to Eobard, who nods. “Basic self-defense classes are offered to all employees, and the senior staff goes considerably farther than that. Barry has agreed to take a Thawne car and driver with him for the time being, instead of driving himself. Given that, he should never be unprotected.”

“What about when he’s at work?” West asks.

“Security at all TI properties is strict. STAR Labs, in particular, deals with hazardous materials that are tracked by law enforcement. We have to be up to those standards.”

“I’ll be safe,” Barry promises.

West nods. “All right.”

Eobard is reaching for his scotch when West says, “And Iris?”

“What?” Barry says.

“Iris,” West says patiently. “Your sister. What happens when Cobalt realizes he can’t get to you, or to Thawne, and decides to make for an easier target?”

“Oh my god,” Barry says, sitting up straighter.

“I’m not worried about Eddie or me,” West continues. “We’re rarely away from the company of other cops, and we’re usually carrying. Worst-case, we know how to take care of ourselves. But what about Iris?”

“Will she accept protection?” Eobard asks.

“If I ask it of her.” Something shadows West’s face briefly; he shakes it off in the next moment, or perhaps it had only been a trick of the fire.

From Eobard’s side, Barry says softly, “She wanted to apply to the police academy. If you’d let her – ”

“Too late for that now,” West says.

“A car and driver at her disposal,” Eobard says. “The driver will have the necessary training, and will stay with her if she’s shopping or running errands.”

“What about when she’s at work?”

“A new intern.”

“The paper won’t object?”

Eobard pauses, thinking. Iris works for the _Central City Picture-News._ They’re an subsidiary, of – he frowns after the knowledge – of DPNC, the Daily Planet News Conglomerate. That’s a Kent corporation. Out of Metropolis. Eobard has no connections there, but Bruce Wayne knows the current head of the Kent family.

“I’ll make a phone call,” Eobard says.

West nods slowly. “Name your price.”

Eobard moves a hand. “No, I owe you a debt already.”

West looks like he’s about to argue, but Barry interrupts. “For getting our labs moved up at the CCPD,” he says.

This makes West pause. Slowly he inclines his head. “All right. It’s canceled, then.”

Eobard raises his scotch and sips, an acknowledgement.

There’s a discreet cough at the doorway. Everyone’s heads turn.

“Your pardon,” Ruth says from the doorway, “but Mr. Thawne has a phone call waiting. Ms. Caitlin Snow.”

“Oh,” Barry says, scrambling off the armchair at once. Eobard has to fight to keep his face neutral as Barry brushes against certain portions of his anatomy that he prefers not to have handled in public. “Thank you, I’ll take it in – uh – does my room have a phone?” He glances at West and flushes suddenly.

“It does,” Ruth says, concealing a smile poorly. “I’ll show you.” They go off down the hall together.

West watches them go, then looks at Eobard. He takes a drink from his beer without moving his eyes. There’s a moment of silence during which the air is heavy with things unsaid.

Eobard waits.

“We didn’t get much of a chance to speak privately before the wedding,” West says at length. “There’s some things I would’ve said to you, if we’d had the opportunity.”

“The usual warning about a shovel and a backyard?” Eobard guesses.

West smiles briefly. “That too.” He picks up his beer again, but doesn’t drink, just rolls it around in his hands thoughtfully.

“I deeply regret that my efforts to protect Barry have been inadequate to date.” The words cost Eobard something to say, but he gets them out with something approaching calm. Then he’s ruffled all over again when West immediately shakes his head, dismissive.

“He’s alive. That’s the only kind of protecting I’m concerned about. As for the rest – reputations and all that – Barry’s a grown man. He’s got just as much responsibility for protecting you as you do for protecting him. That’s how a relationship works.” West is looking at Eobard sharply, as if he’s evaluating him. Adds, “You don’t _own_ him, Thawne. Even if you did make him promise to obey you.”

“That was Barry’s choice,” Eobard returns, nettled. “I had it taken _out_ of the ceremony. Or didn’t you notice the way everything skipped a beat when he promised it?”

“Matter of fact, I did.” West nods, as if Eobard has passed some test. Eobard resists the unaccustomed urge to cross his arms or otherwise sulk. It’s been a long time since he’s been made to feel so defensive.

“Well, then?”

“Barry’s been through a lot.” West holds up a hand, as if he thinks Eobard will interrupt. “Of course you know that. But what you maybe don’t know is that he has trouble letting people close. Really close. He’ll let lots of people in most of the way, but almost no one gets that last inch.”

“And I have.”

“You have.” West’s gaze is challenging. “I wouldn’t have let him marry you if you didn’t love him, Thawne. But love isn’t always enough. I should know that better than anyone.”

Eobard nods slowly. “What is it you want to tell me?” he asks bluntly. “What do I need to know to make Barry happy?”

West looks surprised. Then he smiles. Watching it, Eobard immediately sees that all the other smiles West has shown him have been false to a certain degree: not necessarily intended to deceive, but all containing a degree or more of polite distance. This smile is different. This smile is genuine.

“Just keep asking that question,” West says. “Ask, and listen to the answers. That’s all.” He snorts softly. “Hard enough as it is.”

Eobard feels the weight of that charge settle on his shoulders. Deceptively simple. He sees the difficulty underneath, but nods, slowly. Accepting it.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall reaches both of their ears. West winks – another astonishingly true expression – and raises his voice. “Of course, he’s a terrible slob. You’ll have to watch out for that. And he’s late to _everything_.”

“I am not,” Barry protests, entering the room. “I’m nowhere near as messy as Iris. And I’m not late to _everything._ ”

West chuckles. “Just giving the man a heads-up, since he took you off my hands.”

Eobard sits up straighter at this, an indignant contradiction ready on his lips. It’s derailed when Barry laughs.

“You’re just jealous that you got the worst of the swap,” Barry says cheerfully. “Me for Eddie. Eo definitely won that one.” Then Barry must catch sight of Eobard’s face, because he says hastily, “Hey, no, we’re just joking around.”

Eobard looks to West for confirmation, who nods. “Eddie’s a fine young man. He’ll receive nothing but the best from us.”

By which West means _the best we have to give._ There’s no objective yardstick that wouldn’t agree with Barry’s joke: Eddie is the loser in this trade. But Eobard finds himself nodding anyway. West means what he says. And Eobard has already come to the realization that – odd as it seems – Eddie will be happier becoming a West than remaining a Thawne.

The burden is on Eobard to make sure the reverse is true for Barry. He looks up at his husband, who has entered the room more fully and is hovering by Eobard’s chair, as if he’s wondering if he dares climb back on. Eobard holds out a hand, silently. He’s rewarded by Barry’s smile and, moments later, an armful of Barry himself.

“What did your friend want?” West asks.

“Caitlin?” Barry grimaces. “One of her cousins was at the opera last night, apparently. Got an earful from Malcolm and went straight home instead of staying for the performance.”

“Oh no.” Eobard tenses.

“Apparently Caitlin’s head of family called her onto the carpet to account for her friendship with me, and how she could have exposed the Snows to someone like me. Caitlin figured out right away it was Malcolm making trouble, but she couldn’t tell Elsa that. She just insisted there was more to the story and that Elsa shouldn’t judge until she’s heard it all. Then Caitlin called to warn me.”

“That’s no good,” West says, understating the matter directly. “Thawne, can you call her?”

“Not directly, we’re not close enough,” Eobard says distractedly, flipping through his mental chart of the web of alliances and acquaintanceships that form blueblood society in Central City. The Snows have no serious, long-standing ties to the Thawnes. Their business interests are divergent – the Snows are in shipping and logistics – and there have been few mutual friends to form a bridge. Caitlin’s employment at STAR Labs has been something of an experiment for both families. Eobard had invited the Snows to his and Barry’s wedding on the basis of Caitlin’s friendship with Barry. Snow had seemed to view it as an overture, had seemed to respond favorably, but Cobalt may have set them back to nothing. Eobard weighs the matter and shakes his head. Hartley may be willing to act as a mediator; the Snows have ties to the Rathaways, that had been how Caitlin had come to work at STAR Labs in the first place. “I’ll reach out to an intermediary,” Eobard says.

“It may not matter once you go public with Malcolm’s identity,” West observes.

“Caitlin will be able to tell Elsa everything she knows once we announce, right?” Barry asks, twisting around to look at Eobard.

“Yes, but a personal touch will not go amiss… let me just send a note.” Eobard fishes his smartphone out and taps out a short message to Hartley one-handed, checking the time as he does. It’s not quite seven in the evening; not too late to email, but possibly too late to hear back. Hartley and Cisco had gone home after their visit to STAR Labs to begin the DNA test. They’ll be sitting down to dinner soon.

As if the thought of the meal had been a summons, Ruth appears at the doorway. “Dinner is served,” she announces.

West rises, collecting his beer as he does. Barry clambers off and turns back, waiting for Eobard.

“Just a moment,” Eobard says, bringing his second hand to bear and increasing his typing speed.

“You can worry about your social status after dinner,” West urges.

“Yes, yes.” Eobard taps send and watches the activity dial spin. Only after it’s sent does he sigh and close the app. He may possibly hear from Hartley after dinner. More likely tomorrow. Hartley has a new fiancé he can openly acknowledge. And – as Eobard finally puts his phone away and looks up, to see Barry waiting for him – Eobard _had_ agreed that they could go to bed early tonight.

* * *

They see their guests off after dinner, watching them go out into the cold night before stepping back inside and sealing the warmth back in. Barry looks at Eobard with eyes that speak. He takes Eobard’s hand and leads him back into the rear of the house, where the bedrooms are.

Eobard lets himself be drawn, and when Barry lets go of Eobard’s hand scant steps into Eobard’s bedroom, Eobard stays where he is, waiting. Barry goes around him to push the door closed. Then he walks to the bed, methodically stripping off his clothing. When he’s nude he climbs in and rolls onto his side. He beckons to Eobard, still without words.

Against the sheets Barry’s skin seems to glow, creamy and freckle-spotted, endlessly alluring. His eyes catch and reflect the light. There’s an invitation in the spread of his palm and the curve of his lips. Eobard is helpless to refuse it; he goes to Barry, and lets Barry pull him down on the bed.

Barry kisses Eobard lingeringly, as if he has all the time in the world, as if Eobard is the only thing _in_ his world. His hands roam. Eobard does his best not to impede them. He kisses Barry back and supports enough of his weight to keep from crushing the breath out of Barry; otherwise he follows Barry’s lead, content for the moment to be what his husband wants.

A hand under Eobard’s shirt makes him shiver. A moment later Barry is pushing Eobard up to a sitting position and attacking Eobard’s shirt buttons, pulling them through their holes until Barry can slide Eobard’s shirt off his arms and down to pool at his waist. A final shove and it slithers to the floor, joining Barry’s discarded clothes.

Eobard has to speak then, has to break the silence, though his voice comes out hushed. “What do you want?”

“You,” Barry whispers in reply. His eyes flicker up to meet Eobard’s; they’re already half-glazed.

Eobard’s stomach swoops, pleasurably. “In what way?”

“Inside me. Like on our wedding night, only firmer.” Barry’s breath is coming faster; by contrast, his expression and body language are languid. “Hold me down. Keep me still.”

“Stay here,” Eobard says, testing, and Barry shivers all over but doesn’t move a muscle as Eobard reaches over and opens the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

Barry smiles when Eobard shows him the soft cuffs, comfortably lined with a simple Velcro closure, easy to undo on purpose, but firm enough to tug on without coming apart. “Wrists only this time,” Eobard says. “Attached to this chain running behind the headboard.” He shows Barry the clasp, though the Velcro is an easier point of escape on these cuffs.

“Yes,” Barry breathes.

Eobard takes one of Barry’s wrists in his hands, holding it loosely, thumb stroking over Barry’s pulse point. “Your word.”

“Fire.”

It takes Eobard a moment, but then he gets it. “If you’re out in public, and you yell _help_ , people won’t always respond,” he says. “But when you yell _fire_ – ”

“Everyone comes running.” Barry nods. “Learned that on a case. The vic had yelled for help, but everyone around was scared – the detective heard me talking about it after, and told me. If it happens to you, don’t yell _help_ , yell _fire_.” He puts his other hand on top of Eobard’s. “I’ll never forget that.”

“It’s a good choice.” Eobard nods towards the pillows. “Lay down.”

Barry shivers again and obeys. Eobard puts the cuffs on him, checking the tension, slipping a finger beneath. Barry tugs on the chain as it’s affixed, and relaxes even further, going almost boneless, when he finds the point where it goes taut and firm.

Eobard goes back to the bedside table, this time for the more prosaic lubricant. He considers the space between Barry’s legs, spread open and wide, the sheets between them like a red carpet, inviting. It’s not quite right for tonight. Instead he lays down next to Barry, propping himself up on one arm so he can watch his husband’s face. The other fingers he wets, then slides down.

“You’re beautiful, have I told you that?” Eobard asks.

Barry’s lips part. “I…”

He trails off. Eobard nods, massaging the rim at Barry’s entrance, coaxing it to let the first fingertip slip inside.

“The first thing I noticed about you were your eyes,” Eobard says. “They’re very expressive. You can almost speak with them. And the rest of your face is just as malleable. You wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Barry trembles. There’s a jingle of chains: he’s started to reach for Eobard, but been held back by the cuffs. His eyes widen, then slip half-closed, fully glazed over now.

“I never have to guess where I stand with you.” One finger, now, sliding deep. Barry takes it beautifully, as if he’s made for this. “You tell me. One way or another, always.”

A second finger now. Just a little too soon after the last one. Barry’s slipped deep; he’ll feel it all as pleasure, and indeed he gasps, making a soft keening moan that Eobard immediately wants to hear again.

“And sometimes, you look at me…” Eobard pauses to re-slick his fingers, and dives back in, finding the small nub and working it, a little on, a little off, coaxing Barry’s pleasure higher. “I think you see me as I could be, rather than as I am, and all I want in those moments is to be the man you see.”

“Eobard,” Barry whispers. “Love you.”

“And I you.” Eobard’s pants have become more than uncomfortably tight. He withdraws his fingers, then sits up, unbuttoning them quickly and discarding them with scarcely a thought for their tailoring or probable wrinkles. Back in bed, he swings a leg over Barry and straddles his chest. “Open up.”

Barry’s eyes are dark when he looks up to Eobard, their green shadowed deep like the heart of the forest. He parts his lips for Eobard’s cock and licks down its length as Eobard feeds it to him. Even as far down as he is, he still has a demanding edge; when Eobard doesn’t move quickly enough, Barry lifts his head and shoulders to swallow Eobard deeper. His muscles tremble with the strain. Eobard can’t help but admire the sight.

“That’s enough,” Eobard says at last, urging Barry to lie back on the pillows with a gentle push. He looks down: he’s been neglecting Barry’s cock entirely, but Barry is hard anyway, flushed and wanting. “One day I’ll make you come without touching you at all,” Eobard says impulsively, and is rewarded by hearing that breathless moan of sheer desire again.

“ _Please_ ,” Barry pants. “Please – now?”

“No, not now.” That’s best undertaken on its own, and after more experience. “You asked me for something else tonight.”

“Oh. Yes.” Barry lets his head fall back. “Yes.”

Eobard slides his fingers back into Barry, testing. They go in easily and come out slick. Eobard wraps them around Barry’s cock, a light stroke. Barry bucks.

“You’re close already.”

Barry moans, wordless. His eyes have fluttered closed again.

“Here,” Eobard tells him. Kisses him, and slides into his body. Slides _home._

Eobard is less hesitant this time. He has more of his husband’s measure now, and sets a pattern of long deep strokes, at a measured pace. Barry lifts his hips with every stroke, eager for every inch of Eobard, taking him to the hilt. Eobard bends his head, kissing not just Barry’s face but his neck and shoulders and even some of his upper torso. He touches one pale pebbled nipple with his tongue and is rewarded with another moan.

Barry’s cock is twitching, spilling clear liquid all over his belly. He won’t last much longer. Eobard abandons the nipple in favor of getting a hand on Barry’s cock. He still wants to get his mouth on that, and preferably soon. But tonight he curls his fingers, still wet from being inside Barry, and slides them up and down in the way he’s still learning Barry likes. Thrusts deep, putting more force behind it. Watches Barry’s face as he gasps and cries out and comes all over Eobard’s hand.

“Don’t stop,” Barry begs as soon as he has his breath back. “Please – I want to feel you.”

Eobard nods shakily. He braces himself – his hand slides to the sheet, careless of the mess – and fucks deep, speeding up. Barry will ride the endorphins for a while longer. Eobard chases his orgasm in the pleasure in Barry’s eyes, in the smile on his lips, in the way his hips still rise to meet Eobard. Seeks, and finds, and spills inside his husband’s body, panting and breathless at the wonder of it.

He fumbles for tissues after, reminding himself that he needs to start keeping washcloths in his bedside table again. Cleans Barry and himself and even scrubs ineffectually at the spot on the bed. Barry nudges at him dreamily and Eobard abandons the effort, curling up next to his husband and stroking the curve of his cheekbone as Barry lays his head on the flat front panes of Eobard’s shoulder and chest and swims back up from the depths.

Eobard reaches for the cuffs first thing, but Barry shakes his head and makes a dismayed noise, so Eobard leaves them be. Barry seems content like that for a while. Then, after few minutes have passed, he nudges Eobard and nods towards the far wrist. Eobard undoes that one. Barry bats Eobard’s hands away from the remaining cuff, only curling on his side and burying his nose deeper in the hollow under Eobard’s collarbone. Eobard strokes down the curve of Barry’s spine and murmurs soothing nothings.

At last Barry stirs and reaches for the other cuff. Eobard helps him undo them, then unclips them from the chain and drops them into the still-open drawer of his bedside table, along with the lubricant.

“Back?” Eobard asks gently.

“Mmmm,” Barry agrees. He stretches and blinks his eyes open fully, smiling. “Yes. Good?”

“Very good,” Eobard affirms.

“Good,” Barry repeats in satisfaction. His eyes are still dreamy, pupils wide. He wears a soft smile that looks contented.

“How about a shower?” Eobard suggests.

Even Barry’s huff is adorable. “A bath,” he says firmly.

Eobard laughs. “I can see that our hot water bill is going to go up.”

Barry lifts his head from Eobard’s shoulder and kisses Eobard. “You can afford it,” he says. “Come on. I seem to remember the tub is big enough for two.”

“So it is,” Eobard agrees, and lets his husband pull him out of bed.


	20. Chapter 20

The next day is Monday, and in theory that’s the end of the mini-honeymoon Eobard and Barry had carved out for themselves. Barry wakes up thinking he’s got to get dressed and go to work. Then he remembers that he’s supposed to be sick; it will be another day at least before they can go public with his relationship to Malcolm, and the less damage Malcolm can do before they neutralize this plot the better. _Then_ Barry rolls over, sees the empty spot beside him, and seriously considers burying his face in the pillow and screaming.

“Barry?”

Barry picks his head up and looks towards the bathroom. Eobard is standing there, naked except for a few clinging water drops and the towel around his waist, watching Barry in bemusement.

“I thought you’d gone to work,” Barry says somewhat lamely. He glances over to the clock on the wall and his eyes widen. “You _should_ have gone to work!” He doesn’t know Eobard’s exact schedule as yet, but he’s pretty sure the CEO of Thawne Industries doesn’t start his day at 10 A.M. “Did you take the day off?” Barry can hear the doubt in his own tone.

“There’s really no such thing as a day _off_ for me anymore,” Eobard says ruefully, confirming Barry’s thoughts. “But I built an excellent office into this house, and today struck me as a good time to use it.”

“Don’t you need to meet with people? Glad-hand, and all that?”

“Do you _want_ me to go?” Eobard pushes wet hair back from his face, looking uncertain.

“No!” Barry says quickly. He shakes his head. “No, I just feel guilty about keeping you from what you need to be doing.” He shrugs. “I’m already lazing around costing TI money.”

“Vacation days are part of your compensation package.” Eobard ducks back into the bathroom, then emerges a moment later in a robe and _sans_ towel. “You don’t have to feel guilty about using them.”

“How does it work, though?” Barry’s eyes linger on the sharp jut of Eobard’s collarbone; he jerks his gaze away, flushing. “I’m not just an employee anymore. I’m married to the man in charge. Not just of STAR Labs, of _everything_.”

“Hartley Rathaway is my social equal and the man in charge of a family whose fortune and lineage exceeds ours by a considerable margin,” Eobard points out. He comes and sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for Barry. “He’s still employed.”

“For how much longer?” Barry lets Eobard take his hands, but resists the urge to be further distracted. “You can’t expect him to stay on now that he has a family to run.”

“No, but Cisco will.”

“You think so?”

“For one thing, he has a contract.”

“You wouldn’t hold him to it,” Barry says, and it doesn’t occur to him until after the words have left his mouth that he’s spoken with perfect confidence.

“No,” Eobard agrees, “but I won’t have to. Rathaway Industries doesn’t _have_ a cutting-edge scientific division; Cisco _wants_ to stay at STAR.”

“Still,” Barry begins.

Eobard cuts him off gently. “Have you worked with Pod 3 yet?”

“Uh, yeah – on Caitlin’s cryogenics idea.”

“Brie is heir to the Larvan family. Her aunt is in her late seventies and her health is failing; it won’t be long.”

Barry gapes at him.

“The Tank is elite,” Eobard says. “And not just for the brilliance of its minds. We’re used to the conflicts of interest that arise when powerful people meet an organizational chart.”

“Oh,” Barry says blankly. That’s a relief; he just hadn’t been expecting it, though in retrospect it seems obvious.

“You – you’re not saying you want to quit, are you?” Eobard peers at him. “Of course you’ll never want for anything, but I thought – ”

“God, no,” Barry says hastily. “I’d be no good as a trophy husband, you know I wouldn’t.”

Eobard laughs. “I don’t know, I could see it. You’re warm, polite, gorgeous…” He leans in, and this time Barry accepts the kiss happily.

There’s a buzzing sound, and Eobard sighs. “The problem with working from home,” he sighs, reaching over to scoop up his phone from the nightstand and swipe at its screen. “Thawne.” He gives Barry an apologetic look and wanders off to the dressing-room, closing the door behind him.

Barry stretches, rolling across the bed – he’d ended up halfway into Eobard’s spot, probably seeking Eobard in his sleep – and picking up his own phone from the nightstand he’s already beginning to think of as _his_. Eobard’s nighttime reading has migrated across the room. Now the nightstand holds Barry’s phone and charger, a tissue box, a bottle of water, and his multivitamins – he never remembers to take them when he’s brushing his teeth, but for some reason putting them on his bedside table works like a charm. All of those things had started life on the bedside table in the suite intended for Barry. They’d migrated here over the last few days. There are some parts of the separate suite idea Barry likes – he wouldn’t want to share a closet with Eobard, for example – but the sleeping apart is for the birds. Barry had just curled up against Eobard and fallen asleep last night, and he intends to talk with Eobard today about keeping it that way.

The door to the dressing-room opens, and Eobard pokes his head out, holding his hand over the phone’s receiver. “I’m sorry, this is going to be a while,” he says. “Don’t wait for me.” He pulls his head back and the door closes again.

Barry sighs. Then he sets his phone back down and rolls out of bed, heading for the connecting door. If morning sex isn’t on the menu he may as well take a shower.

* * *

Eobard emerges from his dressing-room in time to join Barry for breakfast, but then vanishes into his home office after finishing his coffee and giving Barry a slow, lingering kiss. Barry pushes the rest of his pancakes away and sighs. He’ll have to talk to Ruth, he thinks, deliberately focusing on something else. Too many more breakfasts like this and none of his nicely tailored clothes will fit.

Barry spends the day at a loose end and with far too much time to think. He wanders the house, familiarizing himself with it. Rooms where he’s spent a lot of time with Eobard feel friendlier than room’s he’s never used. He realizes, belatedly, that he’d never gotten a tour. He tells himself that he lives here – that he’s a member of the family; that, for all he knows, Eobard has had Barry’s name put on the property – that he has every right, in other words, to open every door and put his head in every room and to occasionally open drawers and peer into their contents. But he still finds himself startling when a member of the staff goes by, though none of them evince the least surprise.

Eventually Barry ends up back in the TV room, after he’s exhausted himself emotionally by tiptoeing through the house and come to the realization that Eobard isn’t going to join him for lunch. He takes Ruth up on her offer of a tray and settles into the armchair Eobard had shared with him yesterday morning. Eobard’s entertainment system is, unsurprisingly, excellent. Barry’s used to rabbit ears and a streaming subscription; it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that spending a few bucks on a movie rental isn’t something he needs to worry about anymore. Then, once he realizes it, the choices become paralyzing. He ends up spending twenty minutes flipping through the ever-increasing list of choices before defaulting to the most familiar movie he knows.

This is how Eobard finds him, an hour and a half later: stretched out on the chair, feet up, tray sitting on the nearby coffee table with only the crusts of his sandwich and the rind of his orange remaining, quoting Melville along with Ricardo Montalban’s Khan as he swears his final vengeance on Captain Kirk.

“I thought for a moment you were actually watching _Moby Dick,_ ” Eobard says, laughing at himself. “I might have known.”

“This is twice the classic _Moby Dick_ will ever be,” Barry says with dignity as Spock leaves his chair on the _Enterprise_ bridge.

“I quite agree.” Eobard comes over to the armchair, and Barry slides over to make room.

Snuggled up against Eobard, Barry immediately relaxes. He gives in to the urge to rest his head against Eobard’s shoulder and sigh. It’s much better to have a real living husband to cling to during Kirk’s eulogy at Spock’s funeral than it is to sniffle alone or, worse, try to sniffle silently under Joe’s skeptical eye.

It’s a little frightening to Barry how quickly he’s come to need Eobard nearby. He can take care of himself – it’s not a physical need – but even the few hours without him this morning had sent Barry into the doldrums. Maybe it’s just because Barry had spent the morning kicking around the house instead of living his own life. After all, on an ordinary day off, he’d have had things planned – a home project, or a hobby, or getting together with friends. Besides, they’ve just married. Barry tells himself he shouldn’t draw too many conclusions from the honeymoon period.

The credits roll at last. Barry moves to sit up, somewhat reluctantly. Eobard’s arm tightens around Barry’s waist, and Barry happily returns to his previous position.

“Hartley contacted me about half an hour ago,” Eobard murmurs into Barry’s hair. “The DNA test is complete. As expected, you and Cobalt are twins.”

Barry is abruptly very glad that Eobard is holding him close. He’d always known it in his heart – and he _needs_ it to be true, right now, for everyone’s sake – but hearing it still makes him shiver. Malcolm terrifies him; Barry doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise. If he weren’t married – if he weren’t safe – that test would be his death warrant. Metaphorically or quite possibly literally.

“No one knows but Hartley, Cisco, and now we two,” Eobard says, perhaps picking up on Barry’s shiver. “That’s how it will stay until our marriage contract is finalized.”

If Hartley and Cisco betray them, they never had a chance anyway. If Eobard betrays him, everything Barry believes is a lie, and there is no safety here anyway. Barry nods. He burrows closer, just in case.

“Do you have to go back to work?” he asks, hating how childish the question makes him sound, but asking it anyway.

“I can’t concentrate,” Eobard admits. “I would rather be near you, and know that you’re safe.”

Barry’s heart melts. _It goes both ways, doesn’t it._ He wants to tell Eobard that he wants the same thing, but all he can manage is a nod. Eobard doesn’t seem to mind, if the way he lays his cheek against Barry’s hair and sighs is any indication.

The credits finish scrolling, and the screen returns to the list of movies. Silently Barry hands Eobard the remote.

“Is this what you want?” Eobard asks. “We could do something else, something more active. A walk? Get out of the house?”

“I’m supposed to be sick,” Barry points out.

“The property is extensive. Land this far out is cheap, or at least it was when I bought it. We could hike around the grounds and no one will know.”

Barry’s not usually a hiker, but today the sound of it is unexpectedly appealing. To see the sun, and feel the fresh air, and maybe burn up some energy in a healthy way instead of fretting – “I’d like that.”

“Come on then,” Eobard says, “we’ll need to bundle up.”

* * *

The first step outside takes Barry’s breath away; the cold has few avenues of entry, but it attacks Barry through his cheeks and his nose and the bottoms of his ears. The rest of him is well protected. Eobard had made some additions to Barry’s closet. Barry’s scarf, hat, and gloves are a beautiful set in shades of red, black, and grey. The boots he’s wearing are new (“You’ll be glad of them in the spring; the grounds can be muddy”) as are the thick socks (“Never wear boots without good socks”) and the thermal undershirt (“All right, I admit it, I’m trying to seduce you into taking up hiking as a hobby”). Barry looks around the wilderness that starts mere steps from the back door to Eobard’s house and thinks that hiking will definitely be part of his future, with such temptation as this.

“Another reason you bought so much land?” Barry asks, as Eobard comes out behind him.

“Yes,” Eobard admits. “It was just getting harder and harder to find time to really go out of town and up into the mountains. This isn’t as rugged as the state forest, but it was untamed when I bought it, and it’s been managed carefully since. There’s some decent variation in elevation as well, though it’s more hilly than mountainous. Most importantly, it’s right out my back door. I don’t have to spend time I don’t have getting to and from it.”

Barry nods slowly, looking around. It is beautiful, and wild, and part of Barry feels a complicated mix of envy and scorn – that one man can possess all of this, because of the wealth and power that set him apart. Then Barry thinks: Joe is probably the busiest of any of the Wests; he certainly works a demanding profession that takes many more hours than the average job, and can call him in at any time. But even when Joe has a case, he still comes home almost every night. And most weekends Joe is home, too. Most weekends he would have time to go up into the mountains, if he wanted to. Eobard doesn’t. Yes, Eobard is certainly compensated for the time he devotes to running Thawne Industries. Compensated well enough that he can buy his own private forest. But most people can share a communal forest and get on very well; Eobard can’t. So why shouldn’t he take all that extra money and buy his own? What else is that extra money _for_ , if not to compensate him for the things he has to give up, like driving into the mountains on the weekend?

Once Barry had thought he’d had the world figured out. The more he learns, the more he realizes how much that isn’t so.

“Show it to me,” Barry says, by way of apology, though Eobard hadn’t been privy to his thoughts. “You have a favorite path, right?”

Eobard brightens. “Yes, this way.”

He leads Barry on a loop through the forest – “About six miles total,” he says, “and it hits all the tallest hills.” The highlight is definitely the far end of the loop, where the land begins to transition from the gradual hills of Central City to some of the true rockiness of the mountainous foothills. Eobard points out where there will be a small runoff waterfall in spring. “In another month,” he says, “the snowpack out here will be about two feet deep, and stay that way pretty much until April, when it will melt all at once.”

Barry tips his head up to look at the trees, thick around them, and doesn’t doubt it. Then he sees something else. “Look,” he says. “It’s snowing.”

Eobard tilts his head back, too, smiling. They watch the flurries for a few minutes. Barry catches a few on his tongue, but they mostly land on upper branches and pine needles, not yet reaching the ground.

“We should start back,” Eobard says at last. “Back here the cover is thickest, so we’re somewhat protected; the fall will seem heavier when we get closer to the house.”

Barry nods, and they turn their steps towards home. Eobard’s right, as usual. The snow does seem to get thicker as they walk. By the time they reach the patio, there’s a dusting of snow on all of the cloth-outlined furniture, on the cover of the firepit. Barry shakes another such dusting from his hat and shoulders before he goes in. Eobard closes the door behind them, and there’s a noticeable change in pressure when it seals.

“The storm’s going to get worse,” Eobard says, unconsciously echoing Barry’s thoughts. “The glass is dropping.”

This confuses Barry for a moment until he sees that Eobard is looking at an actual barometer mounted next to the door. In fact there are several sensors mounted on the wall, all in a handsome wooden frame: barometer, thermometer, anemometer readout – Barry squints until he sees the wire running up to the ceiling, presumably to an actual sensor on the roof – and humidity and moisture sensors. Barry stares at them for an incredulous moment, then transfers his gaze slowly to Eobard.

Who looks embarrassed. “I like knowledge,” he says weakly.

“You enormous _nerd,_ ” Barry says in delight, and pushes Eobard up against the door and kisses him thoroughly.

Barry has some notion of taking the kissing farther, but the layers of clothing they’re wearing are most decidedly in the way, so they break apart after a few moments and start shedding their excess gear. Apparently the back door is on a different set of rules than the front door: no too-efficient valet appears to whirl away sweaters and gloves in an instant. Instead there are hooks in a small mudroom tucked off to one side where they hang clothes up, and a bench beneath the hooks for taking off boots. It’s mundane to be doing those things for himself, but it’s also familiar, and that brings its own comfort.

Back in the main house, Ruth intercepts them on their way to the den. “Mr. West called earlier,” she says. “He wouldn’t leave a message.”

Eobard and Barry look at each other. “Office,” Eobard suggests, and leads Barry down the hallway to a comfortably appointed home office. Barry ignores the extra chairs in favor of perching on the edge of the desk. Eobard sits down properly, but the look he gives Barry is fond as he picks up the phone and dials Joe’s cell phone, seemingly from memory.

“West,” Joe’s voice says, tinny through the handset. Eobard lays the phone down and presses the button for the speaker, and suddenly Barry can hear him clearly.

“Mr. West, this is Eobard Thawne. Barry is here as well – ”

“Hi, Joe,” Barry calls.

“ – and you are on speaker,” Eobard continues. “We’re returning your call?”

“Good news,” Joe says immediately, because he’s worked as a cop for more years than Barry’s been alive, and he’s reared Barry from a fairly young age, and he knows _exactly_ how worried Barry has been. Barry immediately relaxes. Eobard’s gaze has flicked up, and Barry can just _see_ his husband noticing, cataloguing, and storing that information away. Maybe it should feel intrusive, but it makes Barry relax further. Eobard likes knowledge. And Barry likes knowing that Eobard wants to know about Barry.

“The DNA test?” Barry asks Joe.

“You’ll get the official notification later, but it’s already been filed with the court. Both tests show a match. Congratulations,” and Joe’s voice is wry, “I am holding proof in my hands that Barry had sex.”

Barry laughs. At Joe’s joke, yes, but also just for sheer joy. His heart feels suddenly light. _Soon,_ he thinks. Soon Malcolm’s poison will be neutralized for good. At least as far as Barry’s social life is concerned.

“The judge still needs to finalize the contract,” Eobard is saying. He’s looking at his computer screen; Barry, who can’t see it from his angle, looks at his empty wrist and then around the room in hopes of seeing another clock. No luck, but Eobard renders the question moot a moment later by saying, “It’s only just half past four – if I call Hartley now the judge might finalize it before close of business.”

“And we can announce tomorrow,” Joe says immediately. “Good plan. Call me back and let me know?”

“Will do,” Eobard says, finger already on the disconnect button. “Goodbye.”

“Bye,” Joe says, and hangs up.

Eobard is already dialing again. He looks up and meets Barry’s gaze and breaks into a smile of his own as the phone starts ringing out.

“Rathaway Industries, office of Mr. Rathaway,” a pleasant voice answers after two rings, well-modulated and male.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Freeman,” Eobard says courteously. “Eobard Thawne calling for Mr. Rathaway.”

“May I ask what it’s regarding, sir?”

“Proprietary, I’m afraid, Mr. Freeman.” Eobard’s smile shows in his voice. “If he is not available now, please advise as to the next half hour.”

“One moment, please, sir,” and then they’re on hold.

Something occurs to Barry abruptly. “You know everyone’s names,” he says out loud, surprised, and then wonders why he’s surprised.

Eobard looks up from where he’s fiddling with one of the pens on his desk. “I’m sorry?”

“You know everyone’s names,” Barry repeats. “I mean, yeah, I always see you greeting people at STAR Labs. And of course in Society you’ve got to remember people’s names. But it’s not just that. I just realized – you remember the waiters at your favorite sushi place, and – and the guy who worked the coat check at the Opera House, you knew his name too. And Hartley’s assistant just now.”

“It matters,” Eobard says simply. “The person you snub today may be the person who denies you access tomorrow. The person you help today, even if they never return the favor directly, thinks favorably of you – and that matters, too. Everyone matters.”

Barry looks at Eobard silently for a moment. There’s a feeling that starts in his chest and spreads to the rest of him – not the fire of passion, or the sharper emotions of desire and longing and heartache, but the quieter warmth that Barry has learned is love. He slides off the desk, comes around it, and kisses Eobard.

“What was that for?” Eobard asks.

“Mattering,” Barry says simply.

There’s a click on the line. “Dr. Thawne?” It’s Hartley’s voice.

Eobard is looking at Barry, lips slightly parted in astonishment. Barry smiles at him, wide; he can’t help it. He loves this man so much he’s warm all the way through, and he’d stay warm, even if he stepped outside where the ground is slowly being covered with snow.

But no one is answering Hartley. Barry takes it on himself, since Eobard is still just gazing up at Barry. “Hartley, it’s both of us, you’re on speaker.”

“You are too,” Cisco says over the phone. Barry smirks at Eobard: looks like Eobard isn’t the only one who enjoys working with their husband (or fiancé) nearby. Assuming Hartley and Cisco _were_ working. Barry bets Hartley has a nice big desk just like Eobard does. He _knows_ Cisco has fantasized about being put over that desk; he and Barry had compared variations on the fantasy during one memorable post-work happy hour after their podmates had left, though at the time, Cisco hadn’t named any particular names – it had been before Hartley’s parents had died.

“What’s the news?” Hartley asks.

Eobard blinks slowly, once, then again. He drags his gaze away from Barry and blinks a third time. “The CCPD has filed to finalize our marriage contract,” he says, voice growing crisper and more focused as he goes on. “The tests were concluded today. Both were positive and in agreement. Now it just needs the judge’s signature.”

“And if you get that today you can announce tomorrow,” Cisco says in excitement.

“Congratulations,” Hartley says, more calmly. “Thank you for passing that along; you know how interested I am in the case. Will you excuse me for a moment? I’ve just recalled an important family matter I need to attend to.”

“Of course,” Eobard replies in kind. “Please don’t stand on ceremony.”

“Very good of you,” Hartley says. “Cisco, will you – ”

“Yeah, we’ll chat, go make your call,” Cisco says comfortably. There’s a soft click, and Cisco’s voice becomes louder. “You’re off speaker. Hart’s stepping out for a sec.”

“I hope everything’s well with his family,” Eobard says blandly.

Cisco laughs. “I’m sure there’s something polite I’m supposed to say here. Chalk it up to the list of things I don’t know yet. Hey, Barry, are you doing etiquette lessons? Want to do them together? I might actually learn something instead of zoning out if you nudge me to keep me awake.”

“Sounds good to me,” Barry says ruefully. “I don’t know, though, we might be breaking some blueblood rule. People from two different families? _Together?_ ”

“We _do_ have friends,” Eobard says. He sounds fond, though, not offended. “If the Rathaways don’t mind I don’t mind; we’ll have to figure out whose etiquette master to use, though.”

“Let’s use yours,” Cisco mutters. “The guy here has been teaching baby Rathaways which fork to use for fifty years. Everyone is too terrified of him to tell him that he talks too loud and you aren’t supposed to throw chalk anymore.”

Barry laughs. Eobard, though, looks concerned. “Does he use other methods of physical persuasion?”

“Relax, Thawne,” Cisco says. “Figure of speech.”

Eobard relaxes somewhat, though he still looks mildly worried. Barry raises an eyebrow at him. “Do subject masters usually use physical persuasion on their students?”

“I cannot speak of any family beyond my own,” Eobard says carefully. “But there’s a reason why the laws on child abuse have exemptions for the discipline of a child in a familial setting. There are still some who believe that pain makes a lesson stick.”

“Some of the old Rathaway masters did,” Cisco says quietly. “Hart’s getting rid of them.”

Barry absorbs the implications of that in silence for a moment. Then he says, “You, me, baseball bat, dark alley?”

Cisco laughs, though it’s short and a little hard. “It’s a plan.”

There’s a voice in the background – Hartley. Cisco says “Hang on,” and there’s a beep on the line. “You’re back on speaker.”

“I apologize for the interruption,” Hartley says. “A member of my family was just informing me they’d be delayed for our evening engagements, owing to some pressing business at work.”

Barry’s gaze flies to Eobard – does this mean what he thinks it means? Eobard sees Barry looking and nods. Smiles widely.

“I was thinking of taking out some advertisements in tomorrow’s papers,” Eobard says. “What’s your opinion, Mr. Rathaway?”

“An excellent idea, Dr. Thawne.” Barry can picture Hartley’s smile exactly: it has too many teeth, and it flashes. “I will look forward to the morning editions. And may I inquire into your social calendar? My fiancé and I are thinking of giving a small luncheon this weekend. Quite exclusive. Just a few friends. Your presence would be delightful.”

“I believe you may count on us,” Eobard says.

“Excellent. I won’t delay you any longer; I’m sure you have matters of your own to attend to.”

“Yes, thank you. Good evening, Mr. Rathaway, Mr. Ramon.”

“Bye guys!” Barry calls.

“Night!” Cisco calls back.

Hartley’s voice is thick with suppressed laughter. “Good evening, Dr. Thawne, Mr. Thawne.”

Eobard ends the call, glancing over at Barry and shaking his head as he does. “Don’t say it.”

“You two are so _formal_ with each other sometimes,” Barry says, ignoring this husbandly prohibition. “You’re not like that around the lab.”

“Around the lab, I’m the owner and he’s my employee. The social norms of the workplace apply. Just now we were two distinct heads of family, and we have to be a good deal more formal.”

“How do you keep it all _straight_?”

Eobard shrugs. “Practice, I suppose. And there are cues. We call each other by name a lot, and which name we’re using indicates which mode we’re in.”

“Mr. Rathaway or Hartley,” Barry says.

“Mr. Thawne or Barry,” Eobard agrees.

“He _did_ call me Mr. Thawne, didn’t he.” Barry sighs. “I’ll get used to it, I guess.”

“Etiquette lessons,” Eobard says mildly. “Shall we call Iris and get the ball rolling?”

Barry snags one of the extra chairs and drags it next to Eobard’s; he’s tired of standing. He settles down into it, and rests a hand on Eobard’s thigh, just to stay in contact. “Okay,” he says. “I’m ready. Let’s tell the world I have a brother.”

Eobard gives Barry a swift kiss, then starts dialing.

* * *

The announcement goes off like a bomb in the media sphere of Central City. Iris breaks the story at the _Picture-News_ , but she doesn’t keep it as an exclusive for long, and she strategically holds back several juicy details that the _Examiner_ publishes in their afternoon edition. By evening everyone’s got their teeth into it and the story has taken on a life of its own. The _Citizen_ ’s evening edition reprints, in full, their coverage of the death of the Allens, and supplemental material spills out into other sections of the paper. The _Crescent_ takes a different angle and fills its Society pages with everything it can learn about Malcolm, Hugo, and Charlene Cobalt, and Dr. Hugo Strange. Iris has something new for the evening edition too: a reconstructed timeline of the events of the fateful thirty-six hours at Central City Women’s Center in March of 1991. Quoting ‘unnamed police and other sources’ – Joe West, Quentin Lance, Charlene’s diary – Iris takes her readers step by step through the birth of Charlene’s twins, Nora’s son, the tragic death of one infant and the mistaken identification that had snarled so many lives. Iris writes _mistaken_ ; they have no proof of anything else, and there’s no one left alive to prosecute, so Barry has agreed to let it stand.

The next day the story has scattered, as stories often do. The news is too big to be confined to the Society pages alone. Legal blotters pick up on the payment to the Cobalts in the Thawne-(West) Allen marriage contract and are soon full of speculation about the relevant case law. City pages begin to talk about the need for greater accountability and oversight in modern neonatal units.

“As if babies today aren’t tagged and tracked and lojacked already,” Caitlin laughs to Barry. “My cousin Jack just had his first kid, and I couldn’t even take her down the hallway of the hospital without setting off a million alarms.”

“Are there any pictures?” Barry asks eagerly. He leans forward as Caitlin shows them off. Across their sitting room, Elsa Snow is sipping tea and making apologetic noises to Eobard, who is downplaying the brief contretemps with dismissive gestures and an insistence that Elsa have another cookie.

By Thursday, the obvious facts of the case have been run through and the media are beginning to go farther afield for new fodder. This is when Iris has scheduled most of Barry’s interviews: the news cycle is mature enough that everyone’s eager for new content, but not so advanced that Barry doesn’t still have something new to contribute. She’s coached Barry carefully, and Barry sticks firmly to the script. No, he’d never been more shocked in his life than when he’d learned that he has a living sibling. Yes, they have met, a few times, but their lives are so divergent – Does he consider himself a Cobalt? No, he considers himself a Thawne. But doesn’t the balance of evidence indicate that he probably isn’t Nora’s biological son? There’s no way to prove it one way or another; it comes down, Barry says earnestly, to what he wants to believe – to what he _feels_ in his heart. The audience swoons.

Everyone tries to get Malcolm in for interviews, too. He declines them all. Barry wonders what it means, but tries not to worry.

Their social invitations triple, and they attend as many as they can. The ‘small, exclusive luncheon’ Hartley holds turns out to be nothing of the sort: there must be a hundred people there, and every single one of them wants to shake Barry’s hand and tell him again how shocked and saddened they were by the death of the Allens, and what an astonishing thing it is to think that babies could be misidentified like that, and how difficult it must be for him. Barry treats them all politely and pretends to take what they say at face value, even the most patently insincere thrill-seeking of them.

“Back to work tomorrow,” Barry sighs late Sunday night, giving up on the thought of pajamas and just falling into bed, exhausted. “Thank _God._ ”

“Not enjoying the time off?” Eobard laughs at Barry, not unkindly, and lowers his nightly reading to his lap so he can lean over and give Barry a kiss.

“If it were actually time _off_ I might enjoy it. At this rate I don’t know how we’re going to manage a honeymoon – I’m using up all my vacation days so I can go to Ray Palmer’s evening mixer or Mamie Larvan’s ballet recital!”

“A honeymoon’s not important,” Eobard says. “I’d rather see you safe than take a long vacation.”

“You shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that, it’s not fair,” Barry says helplessly. He takes Eobard’s journal from his hands, tossing it over this shoulder and tugging Eobard in closer. Eobard comes willingly, and reaches over Barry’s shoulder to turn out the light.

* * *

Barry arrives at work the next day to a round of applause from his pod and some gentle ribbing in the cafeteria about his meteoric social rise. He tries to take it with a smile, and that seems to be the right choice, because it peters out well before it crosses the line from awkward teasing to harassment. He’s surprised again by how many more people he _recognizes_. He’d always known that the Tank is half bluebloods, but it’s one thing to know that intellectually and another thing to be waiting in the lunch line and know that he’s behind Brie Larvan, heir to her family, and in front of Amanda Draper, whose family are the steel magnates that had, four generations ago, put Central City on the map. Barry adds an apple to his tray and wonders what they think of him, simultaneously wearing clothes he’d needed help to afford and the ring that says that he’s married to the man who pays all of their salaries.

“You’re thinking about it too much,” Hartley says when Barry gets to their table.

“I thought bluebloods thought about this sort of thing all the time,” Barry says uncomfortably. He glances around for the salt; Caitlin passes it to him without his having to ask. “Thanks.”

“Mostly unconsciously,” Hartley says. “And we’re thinking about favors and relationships and alliances. You may as well have a big sign over your head flashing _I don’t know if I fit in and it scares me_. Just relax, okay?”

“Easy for you to say,” Barry mutters.

“What’s up?” Cisco asks, sliding in next to Hartley. “Are we running the next batch of tests this afternoon, or what?”

“If the samples are finished generating in time, they were still only in stage 2 when I left the lab,” Caitlin begins, and the rest of the conversation is taken up with scientific matters, to Barry’s relief.

* * *

There’s one thing about taking a Thawne car to and from work: Barry’s on-time arrival percentage has increased significantly. Barry isn’t  _always_ late (no matter what Joe says), but he has a tendency to try to squeeze five more minutes out of his morning and then discover he’s running fifteen minutes behind. Having the driver short-circuits that habit. It’s not that the driver would leave without Barry, but Barry is hyperaware of the woman standing patiently by the door waiting for Barry to gulp down his coffee and grab his work bag.

Morning sex happens to the best of them, though. “Guess my streak is broken,” Barry says to Julia as he climbs out of the car at half past nine, utterly failing to sound regretful. The day outside is a bright sunny Thursday, not quite a week and a half after they’d announced Barry’s relationship to Malcolm. The sun poking through the bedroom windows hadn’t woken Barry up, though; credit for that goes to Eobard, who had apparently had an early meeting canceled and had taken advantage of it to make time with his husband.

Barry leans back into the car to retrieve his bag and smooths down his tie, tracing the tie pin keeping it in place with a private smile. Even knowing its value, he’s taken to wearing it every day. He likes seeing it when he catches his own reflection. Likes the way Eobard’s eyes go warm when he sees Barry wearing it, too. And he likes the way it makes him feel secure in his new identity. Barry’s wedding ring says Eobard loves him; the tie pin says Barry’s a Thawne.

“Couldn’t last forever,” Julia says cheerfully. “Call or text when you need me.”

“Will do. Thanks, Julia.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Thawne.” She pulls away, cutting through the visitor’s lot with blithe disregard for the _one way_ signs and pulling an impressively tight U-turn to head back out the main gates and on to her next pickup.

Barry turns and heads into the building. He misses the ability to just hop into his car and go whenever, but he has to admit that there are compensations. Goodbye long walk in from the overflow employee parking lot: Julia drops him off right at the front door, underneath the sweeping glass overhang. He doesn’t even need to carry an umbrella when it rains or snows. He barely needs a coat.

He fishes his badge out as he walks across the lobby, heading for the turnstiles. “Good morning, Sharon,” he calls to the now-familiar woman behind the desk. Her hair is red-streaked and braided this month; it’s a good look on her, though she’s thinking of getting more gold put in next time. Barry likes Sharon. She always has a smile. And he always waves at least: most mornings – when he’s not running late – he says a few words more.

“Good morning again, Mr. Thawne,” Sharon says back to him with a smile. “Wallet was in your car after all?”

Barry’s steps slow. “I’m sorry?”

“Your wallet,” she says. “You must not have had to go all the way home for it after all, I guess.”

Something cold shoots straight down Barry’s spine. Before he knows it he’s turning away from the turnstiles and coming to stand in front of Sharon’s desk.

“I just arrived,” he says. “Sharon, I haven’t been here yet this morning.”

She stares at him. “You got in early,” she says, though she suddenly sounds a lot less sure of herself. “Went up to your lab, then came back down again, about fifteen minutes ago. I asked what was wrong, and you said you’d misplaced your wallet, and you were going to go back home and see if you’d left it there.”

“I just got here,” Barry repeats. “Sharon, that wasn’t me – ”

She’s already typing furiously at her terminal. “Here’s the footage,” she says, pushing her monitor around so Barry can see too. It’s crisp and clear, high definition – nothing but the best for any division of Thawne Industries, whether it’s something as high-profile as multimillion dollar particle accelerators or as mundane as security cameras. The timestamp at the bottom of the screen reads _8:23 A.M._ A familiar figure appears from one side of the screen, walking confidenly and unhurriedly up to the tunrstiles. But the man in the video, who fumbles with his lanyard and seems to have forgotten that first you type in your keycode, _then_ you scan your badge, unlike most other places Barry has ever been – that man isn’t Barry.

“Malcolm,” he whispers. Barry’s already fumbling for his phone.

“That twin brother the papers say you have?” Now Sharon looks afraid. “But he had a working badge!”

“Make sure nothing happens to that footage,” Barry orders, listening to his phone ring, the sound competing with the _thud_ of his heart pounding in his ears. “You have a backup for the desk, right?”

“Winston. He’s down at the loading dock – ”

“Get him up here, and call someone else to cover the loading dock. I’m sorry, Sharon, the cops are gonna want to talk to you – it’s nothing you did!” Barry adds hastily, when Sharon’s fear morphs into horror. “I have a restraining order, and he _definitely_ broke it – Eobard!” The sound of his husband’s voice has rarely been more comforting. “Eobard, Malcolm was here this morning.”

“ _What_?” Eobard cries on the other end of the phone.

“He came about an hour ago. He had a working badge, I’m looking at the footage right now. Went upstairs, stayed there for maybe forty-five minutes, came back down and left. Left maybe fifteen minutes ago. Eobard, this violates the restraining order, right?”

“Absolutely,” Eobard says. “STAR Labs is private property, and Cobalt _knows_ you’re employed there – coming during work hours, he definitely has reason to expect you would be present – ”

“Malcolm must have wanted to take me by surprise,” Barry says, mind racing. “He came a little before my start time and waited for a while after it. He probably meant to catch me right when I got in. But then I was late – ” Barry blushes. “And he got cold feet and left.”

“More like other people started arriving and he didn’t want to risk encountering someone who could tell you apart,” Eobard says grimly. “I’ll call Ms. Gideon. You should – ”

“Hang on,” Barry says; Winston is approaching. He lowers the phone for a second and tells both Sharon and Winston: “If you see anyone who looks like me, challenge them, don’t let them by. Legal and police will be here soon. Don’t let anything happen to that recording, and Sharon, you’ll have to give a statement.” They both nod. Barry returns to Eobard. “I’m going to go upstairs. See if anyone else saw ‘me’. The more evidence the better.”

“Maybe you should stay in the lobby,” Eobard says. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“I told them not to let in anyone else who looks like me,” Barry says, dodging around the rest of the morning arrivals and hitting the button for the elevator to the upper floors. It’s his lucky day: one arrives almost immediately.

“Barry, wait,” Eobard starts.

“Elevator,” Barry says. “Call me back after you get off the phone with Ms. Gideon, okay? Love you.”

There’s a beeping in his ear. Barry pulls the phone away and looks at it. _Call failed,_ the screen says _._ He puts it back in his pocket: he’ll call Eobard back after he’s asked around, found out what Malcolm had been up to.

The elevator whisks him up. It’s not a complete express, but it only serves the top fifty floors of the building, where the labs are. Barry watches the level indicators climb. Floor 50. Floor 100. Floor 150. The labs are 500-550. He bounces on his feet, adrenaline making him jumpy. Malcolm had been here. Malcolm had been _here_.

Barry bounces again, and the elevator shakes. He settles back on his heels cautiously. He’s never been entirely comfortable in elevators. He doesn’t know why; there’s just something about them that makes him nervous. Maybe it’s the thought of all that empty space beneath him, though airplanes don’t have the same effect. Maybe it’s the knowledge that all that’s holding him up are a couple of cables and some clamps in case of emergency. He hates tramways, too, and had flatly refused to get on the one in Juneau the summer Joe had taken two weeks off and taken he and Iris up to Alaska –

The elevator car shakes again. Barry stiffens, and then realizes, abruptly, that he can smell smoke. He freezes. Beneath his feet, the car slows. They’re only just passing the three hundredth floor. On the screen, the level indicator turns from white to red.

“Error,” a melodic but obviously computer-generated voice says. “Power loss detected. Entering low power mode. Please debark on the next floor. This elevator is going out of service.”

The elevator slows to a halt. The indicator starts to spin to _311,_ but then hesitates, and becomes _310._ Then it says _311_ again. The door doesn’t open. Barry, panicking, lunges for the _open door_ button.

He never gets there. The car shakes – no, the _building_ shakes, like an earthquake but much, much worse. The lights go out. The level indicator goes blank, and then –

The elevator plunges.


	21. Chapter 21

“Call me after you get off the phone,” Barry’s voice says, and then the disconnect tone beeps in Eobard’s ear. He swears at his cell, a rare lapse of control – or perhaps not so rare, anymore, now that Barry’s entered his life – and sees Dorn jump out of the corner of his eye.

“Should I just – ” Dorn says, already edging back towards the door. The latest budget estimates are still tucked, entirely forgotten, under his arm.

“Call my driver,” Eobard says.

“Where should I say you’re going?”

“I’ll let them know.” Eobard picks up his office phone, hitting the speed dial with sheer muscle memory. A moment later Gideon’s voice answers him. Eobard barely restrains himself from interrupting her polite greeting.

“Malcolm Cobalt was at STAR Labs this morning,” Eobard says as soon as he can.

“Proof?” Gideon demands.

“I just heard it from Barry via telephone; Barry says he’s seen surveillance footage confirming it.”

“Where is Cobalt now?”

“According to Barry he left STAR Labs perhaps twenty minutes ago.”

“Damn,” Gideon says, which is as close as _she_ gets to swearing. “If he were still on the property we could hold him, but the cops aren’t exactly going to put out an APB for violating a restraining order.”

“It _is_ a violation?”

“Yes. I’ll contact the police myself and send a deputy over to get the footage from STAR Labs. Are there any other witnesses?”

“Barry was going upstairs to see if he could locate any.” Eobard glances uneasily at his phone. He hadn’t liked the thought, but even if Barry had waited around for Eobard to argue with him, Eobard still has no rational argument to offer. Just a creeping unease and the memory of Barry saying _This isn’t going to be the end of it… I’m afraid of what Malcolm will do next._

“I’m going over there,” Eobard says abruptly, interrupting whatever Gideon had been about to say. He doesn’t know he’s made the decision until the words leave his mouth, but he’s already half out of his chair. Instinct. He’s always relied on his instincts, and right now they’re screaming at him.

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” Gideon says diplomatically. “I will come myself as well. If you will wait a moment for me to contact the police – ”

“Contact them from the car.” Dorn knocks on the door and sticks his head in, signaling: Eobard’s driver is outside. “If you’re not downstairs before I am – ”

“See you shortly, Dr. Thawne.” Gideon hangs up without waiting for an answer, which means she’s grasped how seriously Eobard is taking this.

Eobard grabs his overcoat and all but runs to the elevator.

* * *

Gideon doesn’t actually beat Eobard downstairs; she doesn’t have access to an elevator dedicated to her own personal use, the way Eobard does, so it would have been a real miracle for her to do so. But she comes hurrying out of the building while Eobard is still sliding out of the car. Which means she’s used the elevator override that all of Eobard’s senior assistants have for emergencies. Which means, yes, again, that she’s taking this seriously.

So is Eobard’s driver. James accelerates away from Thawne Tower and merges into Park Row traffic by simply assuming that the other cars are going to _make_ room. Eobard is pressed back into his seat by their speed and occasionally thrown somewhat sideways as James maneuvers around slower cars. He has no problems with this.

Gideon is on the phone with the police before they clear downtown. “Yes, video proof,” she says at one point, and Eobard is briefly surprised to hear her state that so unequivocally; she doesn’t say that she’s been _told_ there’s video proof, she says there _is_. Gideon sees him looking and nods towards his phone, clasped loosely in one of his hands. Eobard glances down and sees that security has already forwarded copies of the surveillance video to legal, _and_ copied him. Eobard makes an absent note to promote whoever had shown such initiative.

“Thank you,” Gideon says, hanging up. To Eobard she says, “A detective will be assigned to our case and meet us at STAR Labs to pick up a copy of the footage and interview any witnesses. Then it will be back to Judge Rathaway to determine how egregious the breach is and what measures are called for. The circumstances are in our favor – at the least we should be able to bring Mr. Cobalt up on trespassing, if not breaking and entering – but restraining orders are not at the top of anyone’s enforcement list, and first violations in particular are rarely dealt with harshly.”

“They’ll deal with this one harshly,” Eobard says grimly.

Gideon is giving Eobard a faintly chiding look. “What exactly is it you hope to have happen? This won’t lead to jail time. A fine is the most likely outcome, and a stern talking-to from the bench.”

Eobard can’t exactly say _I want Cobalt to disappear from the face of the Earth and never come back._ That’s the kind of thing that would look bad for him if harm actually _did_ come to Cobalt, regardless of what Eobard’s intentions might be. Instead he says, carefully, “I want the spirit of the law as well as its letter to be observed. I want my family to be free of that man and his machinations.” Put another way: _I don’t want Barry to have any more worries._

Foolish. But Cobalt is a worry that shouldn’t exist.

“The former is a quest that mankind has been on since the inception of law itself,” Gideon says. “As for the latter – oh my God!”

She’s staring over Eobard’s shoulder, out the window. Eobard’s head snaps around, and then he reels back, shocked. They’ve just gotten off the freeway, rounding the exit down into the industrial park where STAR Labs makes its home. The graceful tower arches five hundred stories and more into the sky, dominating the landscape. Today more so than ever, except that today the feature that draws the eye isn’t the superb architecture, but the billow of smoke climbing even higher.

Eobard knows STAR Labs like he knows the tracery of veins on the back of his hand, the financial picture of his family, the web of social alliances in Central City. Like he wants one day to know the map of freckles on his husband’s body. He sees the evidence of damage – the hole in the side of the building, from which smoke pours thick and black; the exposed girders, buckled but holding under stress – and doesn’t have to see a schematic to know exactly where it had been centered. Somewhere between floors 500 and 550. The Tank. From this distance, Eobard can’t say any more precisely than that. Not without a pair of binoculars. But Eobard would lay any amount of money that it had started in the workspace of pod eight. Barry’s pod.

Everything feels curiously distant. Eobard knows that at some level he’s shocked, horrified, and very, very afraid, but none of it feels quite real.

He hears a sound. A ringing tone. He becomes suddenly aware that he’s holding his phone to his ear. The ringing sounds again, then there’s a click, and a prerecorded message plays. _“Hi, this is Barry. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message…”_

Eobard lowers the phone to his lap, not bothering to hang up. He stares again out the window. There’s another sound. A siren, wailing. A fire truck tears past them. Behind them, only barely slower, a news truck.

It’s the news truck, oddly, that snaps Eobard back into something like reality. There are other sounds in the car with him now. Gideon is on the phone, though Eobard can’t begin to guess with whom. James is swearing in a low monotone. His job’s just gotten much harder: they’re off the freeway and onto the low-throughput local roads, and he has to simultaneously yield to emergency vehicles, dodge ordinary cars whose drivers are distracted and gawping, and cut past other traffic trying to do exactly what they’re doing – get to STAR Labs, as quickly as possible.

“Can you get us there?” Eobard asks James. His voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. It’s calm and controlled, authoritative and confident. It sounds like Emilia’s voice, except that it’s male and its cadences are the familiar ones Eobard has heard coming from his throat all his life. “If not, pull over and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“I’ll get you there, Dr. Thawne,” James says grimly. He swerves around another rubbernecker and then downshifts, hopping the curb. “How much do you care about your landscaping?”

“Not a single bit.”

James takes Eobard at his word, pulling the car all the way up on the sidewalk and straight through the ornamental bushes. The engine makes unhappy noises, and the suspension is going to be utterly trashed, which is the least of Eobard’s problems. James drops them back onto the road for the sake of passing through the security fence – the gate is broken, probably by the first ambulance on the scene – and swerves to the side, sticking the car next to the ornamental pond and hopefully out of the way of emergency vehicles. Eobard is out of the car before James turns it off, neck swiveling, looking for someone in charge.

“This way,” Gideon says, emerging from the car on Eobard’s heels and herding him around the pond, away from the two news vans who have managed to get onto the scene. They’re assiduously filming the efforts of rescue workers, but it’s a fair bet that they’d descend on Eobard if they caught him. The way Eobard is feeling right now, he’d throw their cameras right into the pond.

Eobard can’t stop looking at the building, even as Gideon pulls and pushes him through the crowd. His building. His STAR Labs, the one he’d built from the ground up. He feels a flare of anger. Then it vanishes like a pricked balloon. Coming around the fountain, Eobard can see the triage stations set up, the injured being helped by paramedics. All of them are employees; all of them are Eobard’s responsibility. All of their injuries are Eobard’s fault. And one of them could be Barry. Or worse. Barry could be one of the bodies that will be carried out later, after the wounded are attended to.

“Call your husband,” Gideon says sharply.

“I tried,” Eobard whispers.

“Cell lines are clogged.” Gideon pushes on Eobard’s shoulder, turning him sideways. “Look, Eobard.” She points to the evacuation zone. Thousands of employees are shivering in the winter cold, staring up at the building with expressions ranging from anger to disbelief to numb shock. “He could be in that crowd and you’d never see him.”

Eobard shakes his head. He knows better than that. If Barry were out of the building, were safe, he’d be doing everything he could to make sure Eobard knows that. He’d be talking with the police, telling them about Cobalt. He’d be trying to organize the evacuees. He’d be at the center of it all, a natural leader. That’s who Eobard’s husband _is_.

“Excuse me! You can’t be here!” A junior firefighter spots them and jogs over. “You need to stay with the rest of the employees behind the cordon until the evacuation is complete.”

“I’m Eobard Thawne, the owner,” Eobard says. “What _happened_?”

The junior firefighter’s eyes widen as she recognizes Eobard. “Uh, uh, hang on.” The young woman – really impossibly young, Eobard thinks distantly; too young to be risking her life – spins around, then waves an arm frantically. A much older man starts coming towards them. A patch on his jacket reads _Chief Wilson._

“This is Dr. Thawne,” the junior firefighter gabbles out before Wilson can ask what the fuck she’s doing interrupting him. “It’s his building.”

“Aha,” the chief drawls. “Okay, go get back to running the ladders.” The junior firefighter bolts. “Dr. Thawne, we still don’t know what happened, but all signs point to a two-stage incident. First, there was deliberate power loss induced by an overload at the substation serving this industrial park.” For the first time Eobard notices that all the surrounding buildings have their lights out, too. “Secondly, an incendiary device appears to have been detonated on the upper floors – that’s what’s causing all the showy black smoke. Evacuees reported feeling a shock like an earthquake. The closer they were to the top, the stronger it felt. Cops are gonna do the speculating about who done what and why. What I care about is that the building seems structurally sound despite the damage and we’re sending squads inside to rescue the stranded and trapped. Unfortunately, my kids are on foot until we can get the power back on.”

“The building is six hundred stories tall,” Eobard says in horror.

“Yeah.” Fire Chief Wilson grimaces. “Needless to say our ladders don’t go that high. It’s going to be a while.”

“Are there – ” Eobard swallows. “Are there any deaths?”

Wilson shakes his head. “Any bodies are gonna be up by the explosion,” he says bluntly. “Be a while before we know. What I need from you, Dr. Thawne, is a list of everyone who was in that building. Better yet, _where_ they were. If you can tell me that everyone on a given floor was able to evacuate under their own power, that’s one fewer floor my kids have to check, get it?”

“Got it,” Eobard says more strongly. Something concrete he can do: he clings to it with both hands.

“Bring it to that kid you talked to before when you got it. Anderson. I’ll go tell her she’s your liaison. I have any more questions, I’ll know where to find you?”

It’s not quite a question. Eobard nods anyway. “I’m not going anywhere,” he starts, and then his control fails him and he says, “My – my husband – he’s – he was in there, up there, and he’s not answering his phone, and – ” Eobard’s teeth click shut over everything else he wants to say. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gideon looking at him worriedly, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Okay,” the fire chief says, a little more gently now. “We’re doing everything we can.”

“Chief!” another voice shouts. “We’ve got something on the power!”

“Excuse me,” Wilson says, already turning away.

Eobard doesn’t move. He’s rooted to the spot, staring up at the wounded building. He’s allowed the thought of Barry into his mind, and that must have been a mistake, because suddenly all Eobard can think of is Barry – the way he’d smiled at Eobard this morning, the way he’d arched and moaned when Eobard had given him pleasure, the way he’d kissed Eobard afterwards and draped himself over Eobard like Eobard is his favorite pillow –

“Dr. Thawne,” Gideon is saying, her hand on his arm. “Dr. Thawne, we need to get that list to the fire chief.”

“Barry’s still in there,” Eobard says to her. It’s the only thing that’s real.

“I know,” Gideon says. She doesn’t try to argue, this time, that he might already have escaped. “The list, Dr. Thawne.”

Part of Eobard is chanting: _Barry, Barry, Barry._ That part of him wants to run inside the building and search every room on every floor until he finds his husband. Wants to dig through the rubble with his bare hands, if that’s what it will take. Wants to scream at the fire chief until Wilson realigns his priorities and sends everyone looking for one infinitely precious man. Wants to give focus to his own private fear and grief and love, and damn anything and anyone else that thinks they _matter_ at a moment like this…

Eobard does none of those things. He cannot. He _must_ not. However much his personal world is in the process of ending – _will_ end, if Barry is dead – the rest of the world is still turning, and Eobard has responsibilities there that he simply cannot lay aside. The ghosts of every Thawne who has ever lived are watching him right now, waiting to see if he lives up to his name or abandons it. Emilia’s memory is particularly sharp.

Across the parking lot, in the grassy spread of land that divides STAR Labs from the rest of the industrial park, thousands of employees are milling about. They are the ones who’d evacuated when the explosion had occurred. They’re not being allowed to leave – no one is, and no one _will_ be, not for hours yet. They’re frightened. Worried. Hungry, or they will be, soon, when the adrenaline wears off. Cold – Eobard sees very few coats, which is good, in its way, because it means the training in evacuation protocols has paid off, no one had endangered their lives by waiting to grab their coat from their desk. But it’s the dead of winter. There’s still snow on the ground. The ambulances on the scene have distributed some emergency blankets, but there aren’t nearly enough. There’s a great deal to be done, even for someone who can’t help with the rescue efforts directly.

Eobard pulls out his tablet, beckons to Gideon, and goes to work.

* * *

Barry stirs awake, disturbed from his slumber by something shifting unusually around him. He knows a moment of panic – he’s not alone; someone is here  _with_ him – before his eyes open and he relaxes. Of course someone is with him: this is his bed, at home, and he shares it with Eobard. Shares it every night, now. Eobard is talking about redoing some of the furniture in the other room, replacing the bed with a small sitting area and turning the two linked suites into a sort of huge master suite, maybe taking down part of the wall by the connecting door so Barry has easier access to his closet and bathroom. Barry would tell him to slow down, wait a few more weeks and see how they actually  _use_ the space, but Eobard is always so excited to do things for Barry. Like he’s never had anyone to actually lavish attention on before.

_What about your family?_ Barry wants to ask sometimes. _Don’t they let you do things for them? What about the children? You helped raise Meloni, right?_

He hasn’t asked yet. It’s a very personal question, and Barry doesn’t feel like he knows yet where all the tripwires are. The last thing he wants to do is cause his husband any pain. Especially not when his husband does things like this, waking Barry up with insistent kisses and a hand caressing Barry’s morning wood.

“Barry,” Eobard murmurs. “Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

_“Barry? Barry, can you hear me?”_

Barry turns his head. “Who was that?”

Eobard blinks down at him. “Who was what?”

“I – nothing, I – I thought I heard someone.” Barry turns back to Eobard and smiles apologetically. “You were being so nice to me just now, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Eobard says wickedly. “I have a few ideas for how to better hold on to your attention.”

He drops another kiss on Barry’s lips, then slithers down Barry’s body until he’s between Barry’s legs, tugging suggestively on Barry’s sleep pants. Barry lifts his hips dreamily, letting his husband pull them away. Eobard wastes no time once Barry is naked: he gets his mouth on Barry’s cock immediately.

_“Barry,”_ the voice calls again. It’s young-sounding, definitely female, and getting louder with fear. _“Barry!”_

Barry frowns. Shakes his head. He doesn’t want to listen to the voice. Something’s wrong with it. Something’s _wrong._

Something’s –

“Something wrong?” Eobard asks, lifting his head up and frowning in dismay.

“No!” Barry says quickly.

Eobard relaxes. “Good,” he says, “because I’ve been fantasizing about getting my mouth on your cock since our wedding.”

“I know,” Barry laughs at him. “You told me this… morning…” His laughter ebbs. Something is tugging at the corner of his memory, something – something _wrong._

“You’re still dreaming,” Eobard smiles. “It _is_ morning, Barry.”

“No,” Barry whispers. “No, it’s – ”

“ _Barry!”_ the voice shouts.

“I was in the elevator,” Barry says. He closes his eyes and sees it. Sees it first as it had been when he’d stepped in it this morning, clean, wood accents gleaming, metal polished. Then he blinks, and sees it again –

“Barry, what are you talking about?” Eobard asks.

“I’m sorry,” Barry tells him, “but I think – I don’t think you’re real.” He swallows. There’s a metallic taste in his throat, grit and blood. “I don’t think any of this is real.”

Eobard looks stricken. Barry closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see Eobard dissolve.

“ _Barry!_ Barry, please, God, answer me – ”

Barry blinks the grit from his eyes. Something’s wrong with them: they don’t seem to be working properly. The elevator car wavers disturbingly in and out of focus. For a moment Barry sees the bedroom again, the outline of Eobard reaching towards him – then it’s gone, and all he can see is the car, the metal scuffed and dented now, a single light burning high overhead – the emergency light.

STAR Labs. He’s in STAR Labs. The elevator had lost power, and then it had fallen. And then?

The car doesn’t seem to be quite horizontal. Is the floor sloping slightly? The doors are hanging open, and they’re definitely not straight: the slice of concrete they reveal is wedge-shaped rather than rectangular. There’s a thin block of light visible at the very top of that wedge. A floor, with _its_ elevator doors open. That’s where the voice is coming from.

“Barry,” the voice calls again. The fear is beginning to edge into outright panic.

Barry takes a breath to try to answer the voice and ends up coughing his lungs out instead. At least part of the haze in his vision isn’t his eyes’ fault; there’s smoke hanging in the air, and only the emergency lights in the elevator are on. His gaze goes automatically to the level indicator, but it’s blank. This is probably the first time in Barry’s life that he’s regretted something being digital instead of analog.

“Barry, come on, you can’t _die_ on me – ”

Barry breathes shallowly this time, which seems to work better. “Hello?” he calls back.

“Oh thank God,” the voice says gratefully. “You weren’t answering me.”

This seems like an odd statement. “How did you know I was here?” Barry calls. Better yet – “How did you know who I _am_?”

“You _told_ me! Are you feeling fuzzy again? How’s your head wound?”

_Head wound?_ Barry lifts a hand up to the side of his face. For the first time, he notices that his fingers are bloody, and the moment he touches them to his temple, everything explodes in pain. He hunches over, panting – he’s kneeling on the floor of the elevator car – until the white spots fade from his vision.

“Barry!”

“Not so good,” Barry manages. He’s not a doctor, but blood on his fingers plus difficulty focusing plus the hallucination – “Did you say fuzzy?”

“I’ve told you my name three times already. And asked you yours. And you ask me questions, but then you stop answering me, and when you start again you ask me the same questions all over again.”

That is _definitely_ not good. Barry swallows. “I don’t remember your name,” he admits.

“Erica. And you’re Barry. And yes, my cell phone does work, and yes, I already called 911, and they’re sending firefighters up to us. But they’re having trouble getting high enough. The power’s out in the whole building, and none of their buckets or ladders reach up to us.”

Barry tries to imagine firefighters climbing five hundred floors, in full gear, and fails utterly. But, wait – they’re not in the Tank. Barry had never gotten to the Tank. “What floor are we on?”

“Two fifty-six. Well, I think you’re closer to two fifty-five, but you said you couldn’t see the bar to open those doors from the inside, so maybe not? I don’t know.”

Blinking, Barry stares at the doors hanging open again. No, there’s no bar. No metal doors, either. Just concrete. He must be really between floors.

Something else works its way into his muddled consciousness. “Why are you still here?” The building should have been evacuated, right? Down the stairs if not the elevators?

“I’m stuck too,” she says. “Part of the roof fell on me. I’m pinned, from my knee on down. I kinda can’t feel it right now actually…”

Erica’s voice fades out. Barry realizes with a jolt that she’s terrified, and just trying not to show it.

“Someone will be here soon,” he says, trying to sound firm.

“You say that every time,” Erica says. There’s an attempt at laughter in her voice that falls utterly flat.

“Well, I mean it.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I told you my cell phone works – the WiFi is down, and the cell signal is really slow, but I can get on the news sites and they’re saying there was an explosion above us. I think maybe that’s the priority right now.”

_Above us._ “The Tank,” Barry says numbly. And not just anywhere in the Tank, he’d bet. He’d bet the explosion had been centered right in Barry’s lab.

Oh God. Cisco, Hartley, Caitlin – had they been there? Had they been hurt? What about the other pods? What about the other people like Erica, on other floors, injured by the shockwave? Who else had been hurt, because Malcolm Cobalt couldn’t take _no_ for an answer?

Where’s Eobard? Had STAR Labs been the only target? Or had there been an explosion at Thawne Tower, too? Barry’s badge gets him in to Thawne Tower. No one would have questioned Barry Thawne coming by to visit his husband.

“You haven’t said that before,” Erica says, startled. “You think it was in the Tank? Really?”

“I – yeah.” Barry tries to uncurl from his hunched position; his stomach lurches, but he manages to get himself sitting, with his back against the wall. He starts to lean his head back and then stops when something squishes disturbingly. It doesn’t hurt. That scares him worst of all.

“That’s three hundred floors above us,” Erica says. “Maybe – maybe they’ll stop by on their way up.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

“When you called 911,” Barry says, then has to stop to breathe. Something bright shoots across his vision. It vanishes in the shadows starting to creep in from the corners. “Did you tell them… about us both? Or just you?”

“I told them someone was stuck in the elevator,” Linda says. “I could hear you screaming as it fell, and then the emergency brake made an awful noise when the car stopped. I tried to call them back when I realized you were really bad hurt, to tell them to come quicker, but I can’t get through. All the emergency circuits are down.”

“Try,” Barry gasps. “Tell them – ” Something’s wrong. Something’s _really_ wrong. Barry’s eyes close again, and then open, and he can’t tell if he’s in the elevator car or not anymore, or who is with him, or –

_“Barry!”_ someone calls.

_Eobard?_ Barry thinks. He thinks – he’s really hurt, isn’t he.

He’s _scared_ –

* * *

Food trucks trickle in slowly to the STAR Labs grounds. Emergency and police vehicles obviously have priority, but Eobard mobilizes some employees to go usher them in through the back entrance, the one that accesses the loading docks, telling them to have the trucks drive over the landscaping if they have to. Thawne Industries is covering all the costs, of course, plus a healthy bonus. Soon there are two dozen trucks in concentric circles around the loading dock parking lot and reasonable lines at each. That’s the first win.

The second win comes not from Eobard but from Elsa Snow, who’d raced to the scene herself, hoping for news of her family. Caitlin and Ronnie Snow have both already been accounted for; Caitlin had been down in the subbasement with Ronnie, and escaped unharmed. As deep as they’d been, neither of them had even felt the shock of the explosion. They’d evacuated when the siren had gone off, and both had believed it to be a drill until they’d made it outside and actually seen the damage to the building. Anna Snow, another cousin, had been missing for an hour. A firefighter passing the two hundred and twenty-first floor had found her sheltering in place with a half-dozen other employees. During the wait to find Anna, Elsa had put her family’s contacts in logistics to work and had a delivery of clean linens diverted from Central City General Hospital to the STAR Labs grounds. Now the uninjured employees are huddled under blankets and holding warm food and looking considerably more like human beings.

All the while, firefighters go in and out of the building, and a steady trickle of rescued employees appear, to be dutifully marked off the list of the unaccounted-for. Getting that list had been difficult. Access control for Thawne Industries buildings is entirely digital, and usually that information would have been available at the push of a button, but the STAR Labs computers are unavailable. The building as a whole has no power except what the emergency systems supply, and those emergency systems are focused on preserving human life, not data. That’s what the regular backups are for. It takes twenty minutes to get the last synced copy from the central servers at Thawne Tower, and they’re time stamped forty minutes before the explosion.

“Better than nothing,” Wilson had said, appearing at Anderson’s side and taking the tablet from Eobard’s hands. “Thanks. I’ll get some people to start cross-referencing on this.”

An hour and a half later, Eobard had organized his own employees to tally up the members of their divisions and self-report any missing to the next management level up, until it had all ended up in section leaders’ hands to be pulled together and given to the fire brigade.

Anderson hesitates over taking the results to Wilson, though. “We need ID checks on everyone who got out before we can verify them safe,” she says. “We’re not supposed to rely on self-identification.”

“But you can use a preliminary list of missing?” Eobard presses. He understands the concern – no one wants to tell loved ones that someone is safe, only to find out later that there’s been a mistake – but surely the concern is _under_ reporting of the missing, not _over_ reporting. “Even if the list later proves to be incomplete – ”

“It’s a starting place. Yes, all right – ”

There’s a screeching sound, not human, but mechanical, as of an overstressed system. Eobard turns towards STAR Labs instinctively, afraid that he’ll see something else gone wrong. Instead he sees the lights on the side of the building start to blink on.

“They’ve got the power on,” Anderson cheers. “Now we can put the elevators back into limited service – thanks for the list, Dr. Thawne, I’ve got to get back – ” she runs off, not even finishing her sentence.

Eobard can only watch, heart lodged in his throat. _Barry._ They can get to the top floors now – they can get to _Barry_ now, he hopes. Or Barry’s body. _Please, Barry, don’t be dead. Please hold on._

There’s a new burst of activity among the rescue personnel. Eobard swallows his hopes and his fears both and turns back to his other tasks.

* * *

“ _Hey_!”

Barry looks up from his sandwich and smiles. “Iris! What are you doing here?”

She jogs up to the park bench where he’s sitting, enjoying the first really warm day of spring. Iris is taking advantage of it, too, rocking a stunning yellow sundress along with her practical black boots. She’s got her laptop bag slung over her shoulder and a plastic bag from a local deli in one hand.

“I had an interview downtown, and I thought I’d stop to grab lunch,” she says cheerfully. “Then I spotted you – great minds think alike! Can I join you?”

“Of course!” Barry slides down the bench, making room. “It’s great to see you. We’ve both been so busy lately, with everything going on.”

“Everything?” Iris’ nose crinkles. So does the wrapping on her panini, as she unwraps it. “I guess Dad had that big case, but otherwise I don’t think we’ve been _that_ busy.”

“Oh, you know,” Barry says, sure she’s joking. “Just your engagement, and then mine, and the wedding, and my long-lost twin brother.”

Iris stops mid-bite. She puts her panini down – the outlines of her teeth still visible in the bite she hadn’t taken – and says, “How did you know I’d asked Eddie to marry me?”

_“Barry, Barry, come_ on _,”_ a vaguely familiar voice cries, frantic. Barry turns his head automatically to try to find the speaker. He knows that voice. It’s – whose voice is it? Someone he works with, right? Someone at STAR Labs.

“And what was that about a twin brother?” Iris reclaims Barry’s attention. “I – is this an April Fool’s prank? Because that was two weeks ago.”

“No,” Barry whispers. “No, it’s not a prank.”

He puts his sandwich down. He hasn’t really been eating it, anyway.

“Iris,” he asks carefully, “what’s my last name?”

Iris smiles at him. “You’re Barry Allen, of course.”

“Of course.” Barry starts to stand up, then thinks better of it. He sits down on the pavement in front of the bench and leans his back against it.

“Barry, get up!” Iris cries. “You’ll get your pants wet, what are you thinking?”

“ _Barry_ ,” the other voice is crying, too. Barry puts Iris’ voice out of his mind. Focuses on the other voice. Erica. That’s her name. The other voice is Erica.

“Erica,” Barry says out loud. Can she hear him? When he still sees Iris’ worried face, and feels the mud from the pavement seeping through his jeans?

“ _Barry, look,”_ Erica cries. _“Look, the lights are on! They got the power working! We’ll be rescued soon!”_

“That’s good,” Barry tries to say to her.

“What’s good?” Iris has come to her feet; she’s grabbed one of Barry’s unresisting hands and is tugging on it. “Barry, come _on_!”

_“Come on, Barry, you can’t give up now – we’ll be rescued soon, they can use the elevators now – Barry, talk to me!”_

“You’re scaring me!” Iris cries.

“Tell Eobard I love him,” Barry begs, to Iris or to Erica, whichever one of them is real, and slips back into the darkness.

* * *

It takes ten excruciating minutes after the power is brought back online for the firefighters to make it to the Tank. They have to validate that the power supply is adequate, and won’t be interrupted at an inconvenient time. They have to survey the elevators and determine which of them, if any, are functional enough to use. They have issue firefighter’s keys to each group, and get to the main elevator control panel to override it from there as well, just to be sure.

“Someone’s trapped in one of the elevators, too,” Anderson says, bouncing on her feet as she stands next to Eobard. They can’t send everyone up in the three elevators Wilson has finally greenlit for use, and Anderson is visibly annoyed at having to stay behind. She’ll know better than to talk to any stray bluebloods from now on, Eobard thinks morbidly. Tried to do her duty and ended up liaison to the building owner.

“Stuck?” Eobard says. “Everyone should have gotten off at the next floor, when the elevators lost power.” Eobard’s distracting himself. He knows it. Barry hadn’t been among those milling about on the lawn. Neither had Cisco Ramon or Hartley Rathaway, the other members of Barry’s pod. Half of pod seven and three members of pod nine are missing, the two lab spaces adjacent. One member of pod five is also unaccounted for. Plus a scattering of other people throughout the building, presumably injured in the earthquake-like shockwave and unable to evacuate, or still sheltering in place and waiting for rescue.

Anderson shrugs. “Some lady called 911 and said she was stuck in an elevator. Guess she didn’t know when to leave.”

“They’ll get her out now?”

“Oh, yeah.” Anderson nods. “Chief’s sending a team to her floor. Hey, that might be them!”

A group of people are coming out of the building. Eobard inches closer, one eye on Anderson. Wilson had _told_ Eobard to stay behind the handicapped parking, and he’d told Anderson to _make sure_ Eobard stayed behind the handicapped parking. But Anderson is visibly eager to be closer to the action herself, and she makes no complaint as Eobard inches closer.

“You three, over there,” the leader of the group is ordering. He’s wearing firefighting gear, though his helmet is up, revealing a face streaked with sweat and grime. The three people he’s herding are all STAR Labs employees, similarly dirt-streaked but otherwise seeming no worse for wear. Eobard recognizes Amanda Draper, Catherine Diaz, and Cisco Ramon.

“No way,” Cisco is arguing. “I’m staying with my fiancé!”

Eobard looks past him, throat closing. Hartley is being carried out of the building by another firefighter, who’s heading straight for an ambulance. He’s conscious, though: he lifts his head from the firefighter’s shoulder and says, “I’m okay, Cisco.” His head lolls back immediately after, though.

“I’m _going_ ,” Cisco begins again. The firefighter has clearly heard enough: he waves Cisco over with Hartley, and Cisco runs to catch up.

Another three people are helped out of STAR Labs in one way or another, all visibly injured. Eobard squints, tallying faces and names. That’s all of pods seven and nine accounted for. But not all of pod eight. Barry is still missing.

Eobard starts towards the building, intending to grab Wilson and demand answers, when there’s a burst of static from everyone’s radios and then a sudden explosion of noise and chatter. People pile out of one of the ambulances, grabbing packs and – Eobard pales – a stretcher. They run into the building, accompanied by another group of firefighters.

Eobard runs, too. Anderson doesn’t even try to stop him. She’s at his heels, but when she skids to a halt in front of Wilson all she does is pant.

“Think we found your husband,” Wilson says grimly, not even bothering to yell at Eobard for having violated his dictum of _stay behind the handicapped spots_. “Damn 911 idiot. Said there was a lady trapped in an elevator, ankle hurt but otherwise fine. That’s not what the lady says when we find her. She’s trapped _outside_ an elevator, pinned by debris – that’s the ankle. The person in the elevator’s your husband, we think, and apparently ‘otherwise fine’ isn’t the term.”

Eobard’s heart stops in his chest. He sways on his feet, suddenly dizzy. Anderson grabs his arm and looks alarmed.

“How bad?” he croaks.

“Won’t know till the paramedics get there. Bad enough he can’t get down on his own even after the firefighters got the escape hatch open. That’s all I know.” Wilson looks Eobard up and down. “He’s breathing. Hold on to that.”

* * *

“Barry!” Cisco is calling. “The materials just finished synthesizing!”

“Be right there!” Barry yells back. He hastily finishes the rest of this paragraph, then saves his report and grabs his eye protection on the way out of the lab. “They’re all done, all the samples?”

“All of them,” Caitlin confirms. She’s pulling sample containers out of the matter compiler and opening each of them carefully, already wearing gloves and eye protection of her own. Barry stays back and fumbles for the gloves dispenser.

“And it only took three days,” Hartley sighs. He’s getting the test area reset. “I mean, sheesh, they were only at – what? Stage 2? At lunch today – ”

“Yesterday,” Barry says. “No, wait – ” He frowns, trying to remember. “Two days ago? Was it two days ago?”

“No, it was today,” Hartley disagrees. “Remember, because you were overthinking everything, and I told you to stop?”

No. No, that’s wrong – _this_ is wrong – this had been two days ago, which means that this isn’t real –

“Barry,” a voice calls. Barry spins, thinking – _Erica_ – but it’s not Erica. It’s a male voice. It sounds like Barry’s voice, except Barry hasn’t spoken.

It’s coming from outside the lab. Barry starts for the door.

“Where are you going?” Cisco calls. Barry ignores him, reaching for the handle. The door swings open before Barry’s hand can touch it, and there, on the other side –

“ _Barry_ ,” the voice calls again, bright and sing-song and gloating –

* * *

“Dr. Thawne!” Someone is shouting; Eobard turns his head, feeling everything spin. The firefighters haven’t come out of the building with Barry yet. The shouting is coming from behind him, where a man wearing a badge is elbowing a firefighter aside when they try to stop his progress. It’s Joseph West, looking ashen. Eddie is with him. Not Iris. Perhaps she couldn’t get away, Eobard thinks numbly. The explosion will be big news. She’ll be busy.

“Let me through, you idiot, I’m a cop,” West says to someone else, then skids to a halt in front of Eobard. “Where’s Barry?”

“They’re bringing him out now,” Eobard says thickly. “They say he was hurt.”

“They’re just bringing him out _now_?” West looks furious. Seeing the fire chief standing next to Eobard, West rounds on Wilson. “What the hell kind of a rescue operation do you call this?”

“The kind that’s so far gotten everyone out alive,” Wilson snaps back. “We’re only five missing persons from a full rescue, that’s what kind, and it might just be everyone walks away breathing from this one, so mind your own jurisdiction! Don’t you have a bomber to find?”

“A _bomber_?” West looks ready to shout again, then his eyes widen and he spins on Eobard instead. “ _Cobalt?_ ”

“He was here this morning,” Eobard reports. His earlier strength seems to have deserted him: even to his own ears, his voice sounds flat and stunned. “He’d left right before Barry arrived. We called it in. I was coming to make sure everything was okay, get the security footage…” Eobard trails off.

“He did this.” West sounds absolutely sure; at his side, Eddie nods. “That son of a bitch. He couldn’t get Barry under his control, so he had to kill Barry.”

“Only way to regain control,” Wilson says, nodding. He’s infuriatingly calm. “Old story. Heard it before. Up to you cops to prove.”

“If there’s footage we’ll prove it soon enough,” West says grimly. “I’ll nail that bastard to the wall if he’s hurt Barry.”

“They said he was hurt.” Eobard swallows. He’s said that already, he thinks, but he can’t quite keep track.

“He’ll be going to Central City General then,” Eddie says. He, at least, sounds like he’s got a grip. “I’ll call ahead, get the ball rolling. Hang on, Eo. You don’t know how bad it is yet – ”

As if Eddie’s words had been a signal, the front doors of STAR Labs swing open again, and the group that had gone upstairs pour out. First down the stairs are a couple of firefighters carrying equipment. A third firefighter carries a young woman, her face nearly paper-white against the firefighter’s black suit, her right leg a twisted mess beneath the knee. The firefighter carries her straight to an ambulance. Then paramedics, swearing at each other and shouting various things Eobard doesn’t understand. Wouldn’t, even if he had any medical training. Couldn’t, because it’s Barry on the stretcher, his face covered with blood, hair matted with it, and his eyes are closed – he has a head wound and he’s unconscious, that’s _bad_ , Eobard knows it is –

“Go on,” Wilson says gruffly, jerking his head towards one particular ambulance. “That’s the one he’s going in.”

Eobard doesn’t have to be told twice. He runs, and Joe West runs with him.

 


	22. Chapter 22

“Then Meloni had to choose between MIT and Caltech,” Eobard recounts. The faintest smile crosses his face at the memory – there and quickly gone again, whisked away by the beeps of the machinery, the pervasive antiseptic smell. “And, well, you know Meloni – she – she couldn’t decide…” Eobard trails off and swallows hard. “You’ll learn that about Meloni,” he says, voice cracking. His hand tightens on Barry’s. “When you wake up.”

Barry doesn’t respond. His eyes don’t so much as flutter. The machines all around him go on performing their vitally necessary functions, keeping him alive.

The ambulance ride will be something Eobard remembers in his nightmares, assuming that it’s not overwritten by Barry’s death and subsequent funeral. Barry _had_ been breathing when they’d pulled him out, that hadn’t been a lie, but that had seemed to be the only positive. He’d been unconscious; the paramedics had been speaking words Eobard had only ever heard in television medical dramas, words whose meaning Eobard doesn’t understand when they’re situated in the real world on a real body with real consequences. Bleeding beneath the skull, is what Eobard understands. Words like _epidural_ and _subdural_ are thrown around; no one seems to be sure. Unconsciousness is bad, Eobard knows. Concussions are bad.

The seizure Barry had had in the ambulance had been _very_ bad.

They’d taken Barry away the moment they’d gotten to Central City General, out of the ambulance and straight into emergency surgery. Eddie’s call ahead had done some good. There had been a team standing by – of course there had; it’s Eobard’s family’s last name over the surgical wing – and a recovery room where Eobard and Joseph West had been immediately escorted, to wait for news. Eddie had arrived not long after. The three of them had waited, hour after hour, together but each alone with their fears.

Eobard doesn’t know what had gone through West’s or Eddie’s minds while Barry had been in surgery. They hadn’t talked, except when Eddie had come back into the room after his third attempt to call Iris had finally gotten through. Eobard’s earlier guess had been right. She’d been held at work by the magnitude of the story. The _Picture-News_ hadn’t been one of the lucky outlets who’d gotten someone on site before the police and emergency vehicles had closed everything off, so they’d had all hands on deck at their downtown office, working their phones and their sources and mining social media for details. To escape, Iris had finally resorted to what she’d probably considered a dirty trick: pointing out that her engagement to Eddie made her uniquely suited to get information out of Thawne family outlets that would otherwise be tight-lipped and maintaining an official line. She’d been turned loose to go corner them in person, and headed straight for the hospital.

“Though she’ll have to file something,” Eddie had said, looking uncertainly at Eobard.

Eobard had stirred enough to say, “I’ll give her a quote.”

“Thanks, Eo,” Eddie had said.

West hadn’t spoken at all.

“You should have seen Iris,” Eobard says now. He doesn’t know if Barry can hear him, and none of the medical professionals he’d spoken to had been willing to say for sure, but they’d all encouraged him to try.

Other than that, none of the doctors or nurses had said much. At least, not much that Eobard had understood. They’d said that there had been bleeding in Barry’s brain – or not his brain exactly – some of the matter encompassing the brain. And the bleeding had created pressure, which had been the real danger. The surgery had been to drain the bleeding and relieve the pressure. After which Barry should wake up.

Eventually.

“What,” Eobard had finally managed to ask, when the surgeon had explained all of this to him, “does ‘eventually’ mean?”

“It means we don’t know when,” she’d said wearily. “The sooner he wakes up, the less serious the long-term damage will be. If he wakes up within the next twenty-four hours, the prognosis is excellent. As time goes on, it’s more and more likely that he’ll lose more and more function.”

“Function,” Eobard had said numbly.

“Memory is usually the first thing to be affected. The other patient trapped with Mr. Thawne said that he was already suffering from short-term memory loss. Beyond that, we’ll have to see, if he wakes up.”

“When,” West had said angrily. “You mean _when_ he wakes up.”

“Of course,” she’d said. “My apologies.”

She hadn’t seemed apologetic. She’d just seemed tired, and left shortly afterwards.

“You should have seen Iris,” Eobard starts again, pulling his thoughts out of the abyss of memory and focusing them on his husband. “She was frantic, she – well, we all were. I mean, we all _are_. Because you haven’t woken up yet.” Eobard swallows. Tries to make it a joke – “I – I know you like to sleep in, but – ”

Barry continues to breathe, deep and even.

“Iris was worried,” Eobard makes himself say. “She wanted to know what was going on with you, and no one knew. Not anything more than she’d already been able to figure out from the police band and her sources. You were the worst hurt, you know. You’re big news.”

Eobard has to stop and breathe himself, several times, before he can continue. “I guess you’d be glad to hear that,” he says. “You’d be glad that no one else was hurt badly because of Cobalt.

“Anyway, once Iris found out there was nothing to find out, she started trying to manage us instead.” Again Eobard smiles briefly. “I wish I could have had her for a Thawne, but – but then I wouldn’t have you, would I?” He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

Barry doesn’t respond. Of course not.

“She started with Eddie – tells him to go back to the CCPD, make sure they got the footage of Cobalt entering STAR Labs. Make sure they’re linking Cobalt to the bombings. He went off easily enough.” Eobard manages a laugh. “Love is like that.”

He falls silent, stroking Barry’s hand, thumb tracing Barry’s veins compulsively. There’s an IV in his other hand, or Eobard would be holding them both.

If Barry would wake up, Eobard would go wherever Barry told him to. If – if –

“If you’ll wake up,” Eobard whispers aloud. “If you’ll just wake up, and – and _know_ me when you do – I’ll do anything, Barry, I promise.”

 _Memory loss_ , the doctor had said. Short-term, very probably, given that he’d already been suffering from it while trapped in the elevator, according to the other witness. Medium-term or long-term… it doesn’t actually depend on when Barry wakes up. Eobard understands that much. It depends on how bad the bleeding had been. How much pressure there had been. For how long. On what parts of the brain. They’d done imaging, but no one can tell for sure. Everyone heals differently. That much Eobard had had no trouble understanding. How fast Barry wakes up will be determined by the answers to those questions. Waking is an effect, not a cause. But it’s the only part of the process Eobard can see.

“Eddie left,” Eobard goes on, instead of saying any of this out loud. “I think Iris thought that since he was so easy to manage, West and I would be the same. She was wrong about _that_. Neither of us would budge until you were out of surgery.” Eobard reflects, then adds, “You were lucky in him, Barry. I know you’ve had a lot of bad luck with family – Nora, and then Cobalt – but West is a good man and a good head.

“So we waited until you got out of surgery, and then Iris was able to get West to go back to the CCPD at last, so that he could – how did he put it?” Eobard tries to remember. “ _‘Nail that son of a bitch to the wall.’_ ”

He waits for Barry to laugh, reflexively. It hurts when Barry doesn’t, even though Eobard really should have known better.

There’s no doubt in Eobard’s mind that Cobalt is behind this. This is part of what Eobard had been turning over in his mind, while waiting for Barry to come out of surgery. He’s concluded that Cobalt had cut the power to cover his tracks. He’d expected to be taken for Barry, entering and exiting, and come up with the lie of the forgotten wallet to cover his tracks. Then the loss of power should have wiped the footage before it could have been backed up. Cobalt’s bad luck, that Sharon at the front desk had thought to comment on the matter when Barry had walked in mere moments later. Bad luck that Barry had then had the footage isolated, and Sharon had taken the initiative to email it to Legal and Eobard, so that a copy of it had still existed after the power loss. Bad luck that that had so delayed Barry that he’d been in an elevator when the power had failed, instead of in his personal lab with a bomb. Bad luck all around, for Cobalt.

No. After some more time gazing absently at the fresh floral arrangement adorning a side table, Eobard had revised this thought. It not been Malcolm Cobalt’s bad luck. It had been Barry’s _good_ luck, his saving grace, the good and open heart that led him to make friends with everyone, even the front desk security guard. Of course she’d spoken to Barry when he’d come in. Barry probably greeted her every day, and asked after her life. And so the lies had unraveled, five precious minutes too soon for Cobalt’s plan.

Cobalt hadn’t reckoned with that. He’d probably never considered that Barry would voluntarily interact with the hired help. Cobalt, from what Eobard has seen, would certainly never behave with more than the minimum of courtesy towards anyone he’d view as his social inferior.

“They’ll get Cobalt,” Eobard assures Barry now. “We have the footage. Julia – your driver – she’ll testify that you were with her after leaving the house. During the time we have Cobalt on video at STAR Labs. And before that – you were with me.” Eobard swallows back the memory of – had it only been this morning? Waking up to find his early meetings cancelled… well, of course they had been; they’d been budget meetings, and the budget hadn’t been _done_ yet. The annual tradition. It doesn’t seem to matter how many years they go through this rigmarole. There are always deadlines, and promises, and updated procedures, and new policies, and the budget is still always late.

Eobard had considered cancelling the meetings himself. But that would have created an opening in his calendar, which other work would have rushed to fill. By leaving them there, and leaving it to his VP of Finance to cancel at the last minute, Eobard had been all but assured of a late morning. He’d wanted that late morning. Wanted to spend it with his husband.

He wonders, with a curious twisting sensation in his chest, whether Barry will remember this morning. Whether he’ll remember the day before, or the day before that. Will he remember having gone hiking with Eobard, in the woods behind the house? Will he remember their wedding night? Their engagement?

Will he remember _Eobard_?

“They’ll get him, Barry, they’ll get him.” Eobard heaves in a shaking breath, wiping at his eyes impatiently. “West will make sure if it, and Eddie will help.”

“Get who?”

Eobard jumps, heart rate spiking. He thinks for a moment that Barry has – that Barry – but the voice is female, and coming from behind him. He spins.

“You mean the person who did this?” The voice is coming from a young lady in a wheelchair. There are hospital ID bracelets on her wrist, marking her as a patient. That, and the heavy bandages wrapped around her elevated right leg, give Eobard the clue.

“You must be Erica,” Eobard says. His voice is oddly hoarse; he clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sorry, I never got a last name.”

“Freeman.” She looks sympathetically at Eobard, then past him, to Barry. “That’s Barry? I mean, Mr. Thawne?” She looks back at Eobard and seems faintly embarrassed, though her skin is too dark for a blush to show. “I just heard his voice, while we were trapped together, and they took me away before they got him out. He’s older than I thought.”

“That’s not what most people say when they meet him,” Eobard says without thinking.

She laughs a little. “I bet.”

“And people always sound younger when they’re scared.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve heard a lot of people speak when they’re scared.” Not usually in fear of their literal lives – but there are a lot of people who think their social standing or their stock price are the same thing.

Erica nods solemnly, accepting this without any further question. They sit there in silence for a time, both watching Barry breathe.

Eobard bestirs himself at last. “Were you badly injured?”

“Just my leg,” Erica says. “Which is _very_ broken, yeah. I’m having surgery when the swelling’s gone down. Screws, plates – you know. Then it’s a cast for a while and physical therapy. But they say I should get back to ninety, ninety-five percent.”

“I’m sorry,” Eobard says regretfully.

Erica surprises him by shaking her head. “I was never a marathon runner. I was scared, for a while there, when I couldn’t feel anything – I was scared they were gonna have to cut my leg off. Or that I’d keep it, but I’d need a cane or a brace or something, or even a wheelchair. Ninety percent?” She looks down at her leg thoughtfully. “I – if you’d told me I’d lose ten percent function yesterday, I’d have been really angry. Knowing how much worse it could have been, today I’m glad.”

“Perspective,” Eobard says.

“Yeah.” Erica shakes her head. “Anyway. That’s not what I came in here to tell you, though I bet Barry will want to know when he wakes up. Even when he was fading in and out, and couldn’t remember my name, he’d ask me if I were okay.”

“He’s a good man,” Eobard says bleakly.

“And he loves you,” Erica says. “That’s what I came here to say. He begged me to tell you. Every time he woke up, because he couldn’t remember if he’d asked me or not already. He made me promise. I had to tell you. I had to make sure you _knew_ he loved you.”

Eobard’s mouth opens and closes without any sound coming out. He can’t speak: the lump in his throat is too large. He can barely manage to draw in shuddering breaths around it.

“That’s what I came to tell you.” Erica nods. Then she glances over her shoulder and looks suddenly guilty. “I have to get back to my room before the nurse notices I’m gone. They wanted to just send you over, but I figured that you wouldn’t leave Barry to come visit me, not before he’d woken up. And it wasn’t the sort of thing I could tell you over the hospital phone.”

“I’ll walk you back,” Eobard says, rising with instinctive courtesy. With a deeper need to show his gratitude in a way that no amount of words can convey.

“No, no,” Erica says, trying to maneuver her wheelchair around. “You shouldn’t leave him. What if he wakes up and wants you?”

“That’s the third time you’ve said ‘when’, or something like it, about Barry waking up,” Eobard says. He comes over and helps Erica turn the chair around, at least. “You’re the only one who’s sure.”

“No I’m not, Dr. Thawne,” she says. “You’re sure, too.”

Erica winks at him, and wheels out of the room before he can say anything to that.

Eobard sinks back down in his chair. He stares blankly at the door. Then he turns his gaze to his husband, sleeping on the hospital bed.

“Barry,” he begs, and buries his head in his hands.

* * *

Malcolm laughs at Barry, and Barry, for a brief moment, sees red.

“You did this!” he shouts, lunging at Malcolm. Malcolm sidesteps, impossibly fast. Barry slams into one of the lab tables instead, sprawling half-over it until he manages to catch his hands against the wall of the lab space.

“Of course I did,” Malcolm says. “You were supposed to be mine, Barry. I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

“But you – how are you even _here_?” Barry looks around wildly. “This – this is the lab! I never made it up to the lab!”

“No,” Malcolm agrees. “You stopped at about floor two hundred and fifty-six, didn’t you?”

“Cisco was just here – ” Barry runs over to Cisco’s lab and pulls open the door. The door opens, but there’s no lab on the other side. Just a brick wall. Barry spins and goes over to the other doors, opening all of them in turn. Each yields the same result. Brick walls. Even the door to the rest of STAR Labs, through which Malcolm had just entered. Even the door to Barry’s lab, where he’d been only moments ago.

Then Barry’s mind catches up to what Malcolm had said, and he turns on Malcolm. “Floor two fifty-six?”

“That’s what she said.” Malcolm gestures, and Erica’s voice says: _“Two fifty-six. Well, I think you’re closer to two fifty-five, but you said you couldn’t see the bar to open those doors from the inside, so maybe not? I don’t know.”_

The voice comes from nowhere, echoing off the lab’s walls, its usual dampening nullified by the brick walls in place of the other doors to the lab. Barry turns, trying to find its source without success. Demands of Malcolm, “How did you do that?”

“It’s _your_ memory, Barry.” His smile is familiar. It’s the smile he’d worn over the videoconference link, when he’d called Barry _Michael_ for the first time.

In fact – Malcolm’s clothes, too, are the same as he’d worn for that first meeting. A blue-and-white checked shirt beneath a blue blazer. This isn’t Malcolm. This is a _memory_ of Malcolm.

“Well done.” Malcolm applauds. “You _are_ my twin, of course. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I’m going to wake up now.” Barry turns his back on Malcolm. Sits down right where he is, on the seeming of the lab floor. As he’d done with Iris. He closes his eyes and tells himself that none of this is real. He’s on the floor of the elevator. He tries to hear Erica’s voice, calling to him.

“Nope,” Malcolm says gleefully. He’s still there.

“Why won’t you go _away_?” Barry demands.

“Because you’re not still in the elevator.”

Barry opens his eyes. He stands up, slowly, and turns around to face Malcolm.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m your memory! I just _told_ you that.” Malcolm makes a show of looking down at himself. “You must not like your memories that much.” His eyes go briefly abstracted, then he shudders. “I can see why. Oh my goodness, Nora was filleted like a _fish_ – ”

“Shut up!”

“They didn’t start with her, though, did they? They started with the kids – ”

Barry screams. He tries to deck Malcolm again. He misses. _Again._ But he doesn’t stop trying. He tries and tries and tries.

“Keep this up and you’ll get another head wound,” Malcolm taunts. Now it’s _his_ voice that is coming from nowhere; Barry spins, panting, but can’t see his evil twin. “You can’t get out of here by wishing, Barry. When you’ve calmed down, I’ll be here.” His laugh sends shivers down Barry’s spine. “I’ll always be here.”

* * *

“Eobard. Eobard, wake up.”

There’s a shake on Eobard’s shoulder. He blinks his eyes open – he’d just closed them for a second, hadn’t he? – to see Meloni bending over him. It’s her hand on his shoulder, rousing him. He lifts his head and gasps at the pain in his neck.

“What time is it?” he groans.

“Three in the morning, Uncle Eo.”

He’d fallen asleep. He feels a wave of guilt sweep over him. He’d supposed to be awake, watching over Barry – talking to him, as the doctors had said would help – being ready for Barry to wake up. Instead he’d fallen asleep.

Eobard’s eyes go immediately to his husband. Barry hasn’t moved. His chest still rises and falls, the only part of him that isn’t still.

“Joseph West is here,” Meloni says. “He insists that it’s his turn to watch over Barry, and states emphatically that he will not accept a refusal.”

“I said I won’t take _no_ for an answer, and if you tried I’d have you arrested,” West says baldly.

“Can’t,” Eobard says muzzily. “I’m his family head. I could kick _you_ out.” That’s his right. As the head of Barry’s family, _he_ has Barry’s power of attorney. Yes, the advance directive Barry had signed – they’d both redone their wills, as part of their marriage contract – had stipulated that Wests be allowed to visit, in the event of an emergency. Asked that they be treated like family. But Eobard _could_ overrule that. A living will isn’t absolute. As Eobard had learned, during Emilia’s final illness.

West’s eyes widen. Clearly, he’s failed to consider this. He still thinks of Barry as his son.

Eobard understands. He wouldn’t be eager to let Barry go, either. He has no _intention_ of letting Barry go.

Nor does he intend to trespass on Barry’s trust by keeping West out. “I’m sorry,” Eobard says. His tongue is still thick from his impromptu nap; it’s his only excuse. “I wasn’t thinking. That was a poor joke, and you deserve better. I would never keep you from your son.”

“He’s not my son anymore,” West says. “I forgot myself; the first fault was mine. I apologize.”

“It’s forgotten.” Eobard scrubs his hands over his face and forces himself to his feet. He wants to argue with West, assert his right to stay near Barry, but to do so now would be churlish. “Do you need anything?”

“Barry to wake up.” West sighs. “But I’ve checked everything else off the Iris List.”

Iris West, continuing her reign of terror, had decreed that everyone wishing to sit vigil by Barry’s bedside must have first showered, eaten at least one meal, and slept a minimum of four hours. Of course there’s no way for her to enforce that – at least, not on Eobard; Joseph West has to live with her, so she has more leverage there. But it clearly makes Iris feel better to set those rules. And, perversely, it has made them all feel better to follow them. Not because eating and sleeping are pleasant things – just now, food tastes like ashes and sleep is full of ill dreams – but because the Iris List is an expression of her love for Barry, and that’s the shared emotion that’s pulling them all together, right now. That’s how they’re going to survive this, if survive it they do.

“So Eobard had better get started on it,” Meloni concludes. She holds out a hand to help Eobard up. Eobard accepts, too tired and wrung out to feel embarrassed at this concession of youth towards age. Once he’d carried Meloni on his back. Now he needs her help to balance on half-asleep legs. “Come on. I’ll help you out to the car.”

“Wait.” Eobard leans over – Meloni has to keep him from falling over – and kisses Barry. Barry’s lips are warm, at least. His breath flutters. He’s alive. Eobard clutches that fact to himself like a talisman and nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Meloni echoes, steering Eobard out of the room and down towards the elevators.

The first time he’d switched off with West, Eobard had protested leaving the hospital at all. He’d said there must be a spare bed somewhere, he’d pay whatever it took, he hadn’t been going to leave. Iris and Meloni had gotten that look – and there’s a duo that will change the shape of the world, one day – and all but frog-marched Eobard towards the exit.

“You need to get _out_ of the hospital,” Meloni had said. “You need to sleep in your own bed and eat a decent meal.”

“You need to get _away_ ,” Iris had said. “You think I haven’t seen this before? Dad and Eddie get worked up about cases all the time, people – victims, witnesses, other cops – who got hurt on their watch. I know what you’re feeling, but you _can’t_ stay here. You need to get away, or you’ll break.”

“I _need_ to stay with Barry,” Eobard had tried.

“Well, Barry needs you whole,” Iris had said sharply.

Eobard hadn’t been able to argue with that at the time. He hasn’t tried again since.

Now Meloni steers Eobard out and gets him in the back of the car. A different car. The one he’d taken that morning is being repaired. Or maybe it’s being scrapped. Eobard doesn’t care. Meloni had made that decision. He’d left a lot of decisions in her hand the last few days. She’d brought the few really critical matters to his attention, but otherwise she’s been handling it capably. Between this and the run-up to Eobard’s wedding, she’s having to grow up fast, as least as far as being head of Thawne Industries goes.

Maybe, Eobard thinks for the first time, he should retire. Or semi-retire. Turn more of the day-to-day business over to Meloni. Spend the freed time with his family. With his husband. Just six months ago, Eobard would never have imagined wanting to cut back. But now he thinks of budget meetings and strategy sessions and shareholder meetings, and all he sees are a dozen different ways to steal away the time he’d rather spend with Barry.

Part of that is the shock, Eobard knows. He loves Thawne Industries, really he does. He doesn’t want to abandon it. Any of it. But it’s no longer his only love. Nor even his greatest. Abandonment is out of the question, but a gradual handover… It would have many benefits, beyond the selfish. Eobard had gained valuable experience running STAR Labs in his youth, but the difference in scale between a single company, even one as large as STAR, and the entire Thawne Industries umbrella…

Emilia would have made the transition more gradual if she could have, Eobard thinks. She simply hadn’t had the chance.

Looking back, Eobard thinks that she must have known, or at least started to suspect, around the time when Eobard had graduated with his Ph.D.. The funding to start STAR Labs had not been an accident. The gift had been out of character for Emilia, in retrospect. She had subscribed to the centralization theory of family leadership; under her, family resources had been much more tightly controlled, and individual family members had been accustomed to receive much more direct financial support from their family head. Eobard had eased that trend as the family’s head, motivated in no small part by the effect Emilia’s gift had had on his own life. Starting STAR Labs, taking the risks and reaping the rewards, had profoundly shaped Eobard’s outlook on life. For the better, he firmly believes. He’d wanted that same benefit for the rest of his family. So he’d put more control into the hands of individual members. Simultaneously increased the family’s share of ‘safe’ investments, to provide a safety net for the inevitable failures. Eobard had never regretted that; he believes it’s made the family stronger. But the starting point had been Emilia’s gift.

The funding to start STAR Labs had brought Eobard back to Central City. Brought him _home_. Brought him to see his mother in person again for the first time in nearly a year, and made him realize just how changed she’d become.

While Eobard had been away, earning his degree, Emilia had suffered a series of small illnesses. Each had seeming been distinct from the other, each – at least according to Emilia’s letters and phone calls – had been fully recovered from. But seeing Emilia again in person had revealed the truth. The seemingly small illnesses had all been symptoms of an underlying cause. The failing immune system that would ultimately lead to her death, though the medical certificate had said _pneumonia_.

Though it should perhaps have said _suicide_. Emilia had always been clear and firm in her wishes: no heroic measures. And under the heading of ‘heroic measures’ she had classed even such seemingly routine interventions as ventilators.

When she’d collapsed at home for the last time, no one from the family had been with her. Ruth, then Emilia’s housekeeper, had called an ambulance. And in the absence of anyone to tell them otherwise, the paramedics had intubated her. When Emilia had come to in the hospital room her first action had been to pull the tube back out. Eobard hadn’t seen it, but he still shudders to think of it. The strength required – both of body and of will – to do something like that…

Eobard, as her heir, had held her power of attorney, as Meloni now holds his. The hospital had appealed to Eobard. What should be done? The power of a living will is limited. Eobard could have overridden it. _Should_ have overridden it, according to some of the older members of his family. They’d been furious at Eobard for honoring Emilia’s wishes. Great-Uncle Ernest had gone so far as retaining his own lawyer to try to overset it. At the brief hearing, where it had become abundantly clear that Ernest had had no actual legal recourse, he’d resorted to calling Eobard a murderer to his face.

But Emilia had had her way. She’d woken up long enough to thank Eobard before dying. He thinks, in the middle of the night when his old griefs come back to haunt him, that that really ought to count for more than it seems to.

“Uncle Eo,” Meloni says quietly.

Eobard jerks back to the present. He’s been drifting again, the precursor to falling back asleep. “Yes, what do you need?”

“Barry’s been unconscious for almost three days now.”

“Hardly more than two,” Eobard argues, heart starting to pound. “It was Monday when Cobalt’s bomb went off, it’s just – it’s only just now Thursday. Barely Thursday at all.”

Cobalt is in custody. His entire plan for evading the law had apparently relied on his visual similarity to Barry and his expectation that the footage would be destroyed in the power loss. Confronted with surviving video evidence and the sworn testimony of Eobard and Julia that Barry had been at home, or in a car, during the time of the video, Cobalt had apparently snapped. He’d confessed to everything, if ‘confession’ is the right word for how unhinged he’d reportedly become. He’s being held at Arkham Asylum now, and Gideon’s professional opinion is that he’ll never leave it in life.

West had offered to show Eobard the recording of Cobalt’s interrogation. Eobard had declined. If Barry wakes up, if Barry wants to see it – maybe. Otherwise, no. Eobard’s thoughts are all for his husband.

“We’ll call it two and a half days, then,” Meloni says in a tone of concession. It’s a tone Eobard has been hearing a lot lately. It’s a tone, Eobard recognizes in dismay, that says _poor Uncle Eo, we’ll humor him._ He hates it, in no small part because he suspects he deserves it.

Meloni is going on. “Uncle Eo, the hospital is starting to ask some questions. About what kind of long-term care arrangements you might want to make for Barry.”

“He’s not going to need long-term care,” Eobard snaps. “He’s going to wake up.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Eobard stares at her. Thinks, distantly, that he’s raised her well. Her eyes are ever so slightly damp – she’d liked Barry, Eobard thinks – but her voice is clear and firm, her spine and shoulders straight.

 _If he doesn’t, I’ll lie down there next to him and never get up,_ Eobard wants to say. _If he doesn’t, it won’t matter, because nothing will matter. If he doesn’t – if he –_

If he doesn’t wake up, they’ll bring him home, of course. Eobard’s planned renovations for his suite will change their purpose, convert it into a suitable room for his current condition. He’ll have every care. They’ll keep him alive, waiting and hoping and praying for a miracle. Eobard will implement his succession plan and turn control of Thawne Industries over to Meloni so he can pursue every avenue, every possible chance, every experimental drug that might effect Barry’s cure.

Heroic measures.

“They’re going to want a decision by the end of the week,” Meloni says. “If he hasn’t woken up by then.”

Barry hadn’t wanted heroic measures, either. But he’d been less broad in his definition of what ‘heroic measures’ means than Emilia had. A ventilator had been fine. Surgery had been fine. But a coma? Barry’s not even on a breathing machine right now – except for the head wound, his body is in perfect working order. His heart pumps blood, his lungs pull in air. His muscles respond to stimulus. He just won’t wake up. He just needs to get his food through a tube and his waste removed through catheters and adult diapers. He just needs to have someone rotate his limbs at regular intervals to exercise his muscles –

Where’s the line?

Eobard – he’ll have to decide that. For Barry.

“Just think about it,” Meloni says. She reaches out tentatively and pats Eobard’s knee.

James makes the turn into the driveway of the house. Eobard looks up at the lights and swallows. He’s been coming here every night, sleeping in the bed he’d shared with his husband – their marriage bed – seeing Barry’s trappings all around him. It had made him feel closer to Barry. Made him feel connected. Now, suddenly, everything in him recoils.

“Turn around,” he says. “Back into town. I’ll – I’ll sleep at the townhouse tonight.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Yes, Dr. Thawne,” James says eventually. He pulls through and back onto the road.

Meloni looks at him. “Uncle Eo?”

“Don’t,” Eobard says heavily. “Just – don’t.”

The rest of the drive is conducted in silence.

* * *

Barry slams his fists against the brick wall in frustration. The makeshift crowbar he’d cobbled together lies discarded on the lab table, useless. It had had no effect on the walls keeping Barry imprisoned.

“They’re not real walls,” Malcolm sighs, perched carelessly on another lab table. “That’s not a real crowbar, this isn’t a real lab. It’s a skeuomorphic fantasy created by your mind to try to help express what’s actually going on here. And until you start to engage with it that way, you’ll never get anywhere.”

“You mean until I start engaging with _you_.” Barry rests his head against the brick wall, very gently. He wants to pound his forehead against it a few times, clear his thoughts out, but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea. Not when his primary complaint is a head wound to begin with.

“I’m not the one who chose me as their memory’s avatar. You were.” Malcolm laughs. “You must spend a lot of time thinking of me.”

“More like a lot of time trying _not_ to think of you.”

“That’s the goal,” Malcolm says.

Barry turns and glares. “What do you mean by that?”

Malcolm rolls his eyes, as if _Barry_ is the one being unhelpful. “I _want_ you to think of me, Barry! You’re supposed to be mine! My brother, my twin, a member of _my_ family. One way or another, your thoughts belong to me.” Malcolm kicks his legs back and grins, pleased. “And look! They do!” His grin widens. “I _win_.”

“No!” Barry glares, angry. Malcolm has a knack for making him angry. One he’s been exploiting shamelessly. “You’re _not_ going to win.”

“Oh no? Then why am I the one here?” Malcolm hops off the table and walks towards Barry. Barry refuses to back off, and Malcolm doesn’t stop until they’re toe to toe, practically nose to nose. “Your memories could be full of your beloved family, but you forgot them all as fast as you could. You could be thinking of the Wests, but they were never uppermost in your mind – they were never more than a placeholder, were they? Something to fill in the gap, but you’d never let yourself get _close._ ”

Once Barry would have taken a swing at Malcolm for that. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but it’s long enough that he grits his teeth and turns away.

That’s a mistake. Because Malcolm just comes up behind Barry and leans over his shoulder, speaking directly into his ear. “You could be thinking of your husband,” he purrs. “But I guess we all know which of us is closest to your heart.”

“No!” Barry shouts. He forgets himself and spins back, giving Malcolm what he wants, what he’s _always_ wanted – Barry’s response, Barry’s attention. “You’re a – a _virus!_ A loaded gun! I _have_ to pay attention to you, or else you’ll kill me, but you will never, never, never mean anything more to me than something to be destroyed!”

Malcolm takes a step back. Barry freezes, heart suddenly racing. It’s the first time since he’d awoken here that Malcolm had ever moved _away_ from Barry. Malcolm had vanished, yes – vanished for long stretches of time, even. Whenever Malcolm’s been around, though, he’s always been focused on staying as physically close to Barry as possible.

“But that’s what you _do_ to things you don’t want to deal with,” Malcolm says. “You destroy them. The Allens – ” he gestures to one of the brick walls, the one leading to Caitlin’s lab. “Your old feelings for Iris.” Now he gestures to Cisco’s lab. “Your Ph.D.,” Malcolm says, and he waves to Hartley’s lab.

“I dealt with that,” Barry whispers.

“No you didn’t,” Malcolm retorts. “You sent off your applications even though you _knew_ there wasn’t any money. You told everyone you were just waiting to see if you would get financial aid. There isn’t any financial aid at the Ph.D. level! Then when you got accepted, you tried to get Joe to make it happen anyway. You even asked him where the money from your trust fund had all gone, and why there wasn’t any left.”

Barry reels. He’d – he’d forgotten that. Forgotten saying that to Joe. And the other things – he’d said more, he’d said _horrible_ things to Joe. Accusing him of misusing the money, even. Though he’d _known_ what it had gone for – known about the roof repairs and the mortgage on the bungalow, and the time Barry’s appendix had ruptured and he’d needed emergency surgery, and the hundreds of other expenses that were just part of life…

“You were so furious,” Malcolm says softly, eyes glittering. “Why was it so important to you? It was just a degree, it doesn’t seem to have slowed you down.”

“My mom had a Ph.D.,” Barry whispers. He doesn’t even question where the words come from, or why he’d say them to Malcolm. They come to his lips, heavy and full of poison, and he spits them out to land with thuds at their feet. “I thought I needed one, too. To be like her. To be successful. To get a good job, to – ”

“To work at STAR Labs one day. Like you’d always wanted to.”

“Yes!”

Malcolm nods. “But it didn’t happen. And you didn’t want to deal with it.” He tips his head sideways. “Did you ever apologize to Joe West, for the awful things you said?”

No. No, Barry hadn’t. He’d been so wretched, first with anger and then with guilt, that he’d just shoved the whole thing as far down in his psyche as possible. Forgotten it, as much as possible. Completely, he’d would have said – except, apparently, not.

“Look,” Malcolm suggests. He points at the door to Hartley’s lab.

Barry turns. Looks. The brick wall is gone.

Disbelievingly, he runs over to it. Inside there’s nothing special. Just Hartley’s lab, as it had been the last time Barry had seen it – slightly haphazard, idiosyncratically organized, but otherwise unremarkable.

“It’s a blind alley, of course,” Malcolm says, coming up behind Barry. “You can’t get out this way. But it gives you more options for how to proceed.”

“You can’t tell me that I just worked through all of my issues about not getting a Ph.D. in thirty seconds,” Barry says disbelievingly.

Malcolm laughs. “Hardly! But you know you _have_ those issues now. So the path is open.”

Barry turns around slowly. Looks at the brick wall blocking the exit to the lab.

“Yes,” Malcolm says. “That’s the way out of here, all right.”

“What is it?” Barry asks.

Malcolm shrugs.

“You could tell me what the other doors were,” Barry presses.

“Those are your past,” Malcolm says condescendingly. “I’m just your memory. That wall is your future. It’s up to you to figure out where it leads.”

Barry contemplates the wall for a long moment. Then he turns his head, intending to ask his twin – his memory – more questions; but Malcolm has vanished.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd originally intended to delete chapter 23 and then re-post it with the real text, but that was before the amazing outpouring of good wishes I received :) Deleting the chapter would delete all those lovely comments, and I don't want to do that! So I've edited the chapter instead, removing the placeholder and substituting the actual chapter. I know that will cause some issues with subscriptions and I'm sorry :( But everyone's comments meant a lot to me while I was sick and miserable. Thank you all so much!
> 
> Speaking of comments - yes, I'm behind on them. I prioritized the chapter in my brief moments of sitting up and sipping tea - which is still where I am, recovery-wise, though I think (fingers crossed) I'm starting to pick up energy. I'll start working my way through responses tomorrow and hope to be caught up by Tuesday. Please don't ever think I don't love each and every comment I receive! You guys give me life!
> 
> And now, without further ado... the chapter!

Sleeping pills are good for about six hours on Eobard. They’d used to give more, but years of intermittent use have lowered their effectiveness. That’s all right. As Eobard gets older he needs less sleep. Even when he doesn’t have recourse to the pills he rarely gets more than six hours. And, as much as he may have come to respect and appreciate the ritual of following Iris’ list of requirements, any time beyond the minimum not spent with Barry is time wasted.

He showers and eats mechanically. The cook here doesn’t know the details of Eobard’s preferences in the way that Ruth does, but Eobard’s spent enough nights here in his life that he comes close enough. It doesn’t matter what Eobard eats anyway. He picks at a croissant and pushes the cantaloupe away half-eaten. He’s left his plate is mostly empty: that’s the threshold Eobard has set for himself.

After eating he goes back up to his rooms to get his phone and wallet. He puts them in his pocket, then picks up the small object sitting next to them. It glitters in the discreet lighting as Eobard rolls it in his palm. It’s Barry’s tie pin. The one that had been Ethan’s, that Eobard had given him as an engagement present. Barry had been wearing it when he’d been injured.

The clothes Barry had been wearing had been ruined. It had started with the initial fall in the elevator and the subsequent wait. Emergency scissors in the hands of paramedics and surgeons had finished the job. Shortly after Barry had been moved to recovery, Eobard had been presented with a small bag containing the more durable items that Barry had had on him. His badge, bloodied, the key card bent in half. Useless: Eobard had turned it over to the police, for what good it might do them as evidence, to show that the badge Malcolm had used on the video had been a separate, counterfeit item. Barry’s house keys – old and new, the keys to the West residence side-by-side with the keys to his new home with Eobard, the townhouse key, the master key that would get him entry to any Thawne property on the planet. Those Eobard had put in the beside table of Barry’s hospital room, along with his wallet and smartphone. Barry would want them when he woke up. When, _when_ he woke up…

Also in the bag had been two pieces of jewelry. Barry had not taken wealth as an opportunity to peacock. Some do: Cisco has been experimenting with an earring, which no one has yet had the heart to tell him makes him look endearing and adorable and approximately eighteen years old. Barry had been wearing only his wedding ring and Eobard’s engagement gift.

The ring Eobard had taken from the bag and put right back where it belongs, on Barry’s finger. The tie clip he had put in his own pocket. A talisman. He’ll give it back to Barry when Barry awakens. In the meanwhile, it’s a piece of Barry Eobard can carry with him. Tangible proof of the promises Eobard has made Barry – the promises he’s broken.

Thus arrayed, Eobard goes back downstairs and gets into his car. It’s his turn at the hospital.

* * *

Barry bolts out of Caitlin’s lab, shaking and wiping his mouth. He slams her door closed behind him – the brick wall is, unsurprisingly, gone – and slides to the floor against it, crying.

“That sucked,” Malcolm says, appearing across the room in his favorite pose, an insouciant lean against the lab table nearest to the bricked-off exit. He makes no move to approach. He’s been getting better about personal boundaries as Barry slowly explores and clears out the brick walls in his own mind. As if Malcolm’s power – any bad memory’s power – over Barry is limited by Barry’s willingness to grapple with his own demons.

“No kidding,” Barry whispers. He hesitates – futilely trying to keep the words in – and then blurts, “They wanted drugs. That was it! Drugs! They thought Dad kept them in the house. Because what the hell, Dad was a doctor, of course doctors have drugs.” Barry is still shaking. “As if Dad kept them all in a big black bag, as if that’s how it _works_ anymore! We have _pharmacies_ now! But no, two drugged-up idiots decide Dad must have drugs in the house, so they butcher – they – they – ” Barry twists to one side and is violently sick.

“Part of that’s the head wound,” Malcolm says dispassionately, watching. “You’ve stayed here too long, you know.”

Barry, still heaving, doesn’t answer.

“There’s something else,” Malcolm says. “What else?”

Barry fumbles for the paper towels that usually live on the lab table right adjacent. Then he remembers where he really is. A moment later, the puddle of vomit is gone. Gone from the floor, from the back of Barry’s hand where he’d wiped his mouth – even the taste of it vanishes from his throat. The perks of being trapped inside his own head.

“I don’t know,” he says to Malcolm.

“Come on. Dig for it.” Malcolm looks past Barry, at the door to Caitlin’s lab. “Something about what you had locked away in there is part of what’s keeping you here.”

“Keeping me here?” Barry moves heavily, getting himself off his hands and knees and back into a sitting position. “You mean aside from the head wound from the bomb _you set_?”

“That’s been healed for days,” Malcolm says impatiently.

“Pretty sure head wounds take longer than a few days to heal.”

“You _know_ what I mean. You _have_ to know what I mean, I’m _part of you_.” Malcolm glares. “There’s nothing physically keeping you unconscious. It’s _you_. You’re doing it. And the answer to _why_ is here somewhere.”

Barry glances around. “I thought you said all of these doors were my past.”

“They are. It’s in your past. What is it?”

“I don’t _know_!”

“ _Try!”_

Malcolm hasn’t come any closer, but Barry still recoils. Back against the door. The door to Caitlin’s lab, the door to where…

“They killed my family,” Barry whispers.

Malcolm nods.

“Because of who my dad was. Because they thought my dad had something they wanted, so they killed him and everyone else to get it.”

“So?” Malcolm challenges.

“Don’t you see?” Barry cries. “You’re _me_ , aren’t you?”

“Draw me a picture.”

“It’s happening again!”

Malcolm looks skeptical, which _has_ _to_ be a ploy, especially when he says – “Is it?”

“ _Yes_!”

“How?”

“You!” Barry slams a closed fist backwards, against the door to Caitlin’s lab. “You came along and you wanted something I had, or have, or whatever, and you didn’t care _who_ you hurt as long as you got it. Everyone else in STAR Labs, me, emergency personnel – we could all burn as long as you got what you want! And if I wake up, it could happen again! I’ll have survived! Who knows what you’ll do next?”

“The real Cobalt is probably in custody,” Malcolm points out. “He set a freaking bomb in STAR Labs, I’m pretty sure he’s lost it. You’ve seen it happen time and time again working for the CCPD. At some point the perp snaps.”

“So what?” Barry shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. If not you, there will be someone else.”

“Targeting you.”

“Yes. Or – ”

“Or?”

Barry’s eyes slip closed. The memory plays itself out behind his closed eyelids anyway, where both of them can see. Eobard’s voice, familiar and beloved, laying out a truth Barry had closed his mind to…

_“Barry, think about it. All those celebrity spotting blogs, the paparazzi, the fans – there are always some who take their interest in the lifestyles of the rich and famous too far. Our houses are alarmed. Our cars are armored. Our workplaces are secured… You probably don’t know this, but most blueblood families keep a master of self-defense and make it part of our childrens’ extracurricular education, along with the more traditional arts like music and dance.”_

“I married into a blueblood family,” Barry whispers. “And I _knew_ , or I should have known, what that would mean.”

“The Hearst kidnapping,” Malcolm says quietly. “The Lindbergh baby. John Lennon.”

“When I was a West I was safe.” Barry scrubs at his eyes furiously, but the tears don’t stop. “I was anonymous. No one cared about what we did. And if something bad did happen, if someone decided to mug us or something, just because of sheer random chance, Joe’s a cop. He’s got his gun, he knows how to use it. Or he knows how to stop someone without a gun.”

“But as a Thawne you’re visible. Vulnerable.” Malcolm nods. “And so is every other member of your new family.”

“There have been attempts on Eobard’s life.” Barry gives up on trying to stop crying. “People trying to kidnap him when he was little and they thought he’d be leverage over his mother. People who think he owes them something and want to collect. Or people who just don’t like that he has so much and they have so little.”

“You used to agree with people like that.”

“I never wanted to _kill_ anyone!”

“No. That’s true.”

Barry looks over at his twin; Malcolm is staring out into space, with that lack of focus in his gaze that Barry has learned means that Malcolm is going back through his memories. “That awful great-uncle of his told you about the attempts at violence. Great-Uncle Ernest.”

“Yeah.” Barry shakes his head. The old man had not taken well to Eobard’s choice of husband. He’d spent every moment he could, at their engagement party, at other social events, pulling Barry aside and trying to make Barry feel as small and insignificant and frightened as he possibly could. “But he wasn’t lying.” Barry had asked Meloni later, privately. She’d looked angry, in a way that had boded ill for her next encounter with Great-Uncle Ernest, but she’d been honest with Barry. It had been true. It had all been true.

“Okay.” Malcolm’s gaze switches back into focus. “So what?”

“So _what_? So it could all happen again!” A thousand images tumble through Barry’s mind, not memories but prophecies. A gunman approaching Eobard on the street, just opening fire without saying a word. A group of men ambushing the younger children on their way home from the day school they all attend in Central City – there are four of them, from six to thirteen – or catching one of the older children on their way home for a visit from Exeter or Calvert or Yale…

Malcolm waiting to set off his bomb. Putting it on a timer, or a proximity fuse. Delaying. Waiting for Barry to set foot in his lab, or worse – for Eobard and Barry to be there together –

“Barry,” Malcolm says, in a tone that says he is dealing with a great fool, “Joe is a _cop_.”

Barry stares at him.

“You thought that made you _safer_?” Malcolm scoffs. “Sure, if some idiot couldn’t tell he was a cop and tried to mug him, he’d handle it. But that didn’t somehow make you safe. How many cops get it in the line of duty? How many cops have disgruntled perps, recently-releaseds, even people who beat the rap, come back and murder them and their whole family for revenge or even for _kicks_? Joe being a cop didn’t make you _safer_! You just doubled down on denial!”

Barry chokes. “No, it’s not – it wasn’t – ”

“Your family died. That sucks. You figured out younger than most that the world isn’t a safe place.” Malcolm shrugs. “You’d think you’d be used to it by now. Honestly, you’ve probably traded up in terms of safety. Thawne can afford private security.”

_“Cobalt has gotten close to us in the past because we’ve permitted it,_ ” Eobard says confidently from Barry’s memory. _“Once we cease to permit it, he’ll find it quite a different matter.”_

Another memory. A pleasant synthesized voice, saying, _“Please debark on the next floor. This elevator is going out of service.”_ Then a screech, a crash –

“Fat lot of good that did,” Barry whispers.

Malcolm sighs. “Fair.”

* * *

Eobard approaches the door to Barry’s hospital room with the now-familiar mix of eagerness, hope, and dread. Eagerness to see Barry again – no new emotion, that; Eobard has been eager to see Barry again since the first time Barry had walked into Eobard’s life. Hope that there’s been some change, some positive change. He would have been called if Barry had awoken, he knows that, but still he can’t help hope. And then, quick on its heels, comes dread. That in that same brief period of silence, during which something good may have happened, something bad may have happened, too…

He pauses outside the door to collect himself. It’s not fully closed, and through the small opening he can hear Iris’ voice, rising and falling in a rhythmic cadence.

_“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.’_

“Sherlock Holmes?” Eobard asks, pushing the door open the rest of the way and entering. He looks to Barry, always Barry. No change. Barry’s chest rises and falls; there is no new piece of equipment, no bustle, no change in Iris’ demeanor speaking to a sudden reversal. Neither is there any progress. Barry’s eyes are closed, his expression serene.

“ _The Red-Headed League,”_ Iris says. She’s fully dressed, despite the early hour. Eobard knows she’s planning to go straight to work from here. Both Joseph and Iris are still working full-time, even now, though the West family could now afford the loss of income from a leave of absence. They can afford much, with Barry’s dowry-price safely in their bank account. But it’s not their way. They need work; they _depend_ on work. In one sense that’s wise – they’re fresh out of children to marry off, after all – and in another sense that’s foolish. Barry had brought them enough millions as, with smart investment, would enable them to never work again. To found businesses, to prepare endowments for children… But aside from paying off the mortgage on their bungalow, and planning certain long-delayed repairs, they’ve let the money sit.

Eobard is familiar with the difficulties of managing a transition from one stage of wealth to another. He’s seen it time and again in the poor young postdocs who come work for STAR Labs, who find themselves overwhelmed by the size of their salaries. STAR Labs offers financial counseling to those employees. Eobard can’t do the same for the Wests, but he can have a discreet word with Eddie about it. And Eddie can take a serious look at the West finances, and start to work with a financial planner, in anticipation of making some changes after his marriage.

Iris slips a bookmark in to mark her place and closes the book, showing Eobard the cover. “From _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. It’s a trick, of course. There is no Red-Headed League. The real wonder is how anyone could believe there ever was.”

“The magical American millionaire,” Eobard says. “No matter what fantastical stunt Conan Doyle needed to move his plot forward, he could always blame it on an eccentric American millionaire, and his audience would believe it.”

Iris smiles. “I suppose that’s true.” She tucks the book into her bag and rises. “There’s been no change.” She turns slightly towards Eobard, and the light falls on her face more directly, bringing the weary lines into sharp relief. “The hospital asked again about long-term care.”

Eobard walks past Iris and takes Barry’s hand. Barry’s wedding ring tries its best to glitter a welcome for its silent master, though the harsh lighting drowns the brilliance of the rubies.

“Meloni will be speaking to contractors tomorrow,” Eobard says quietly. “To remodel Barry’s suite into something suitable.” He makes himself look up and meet Iris’ eyes. There’s grief there, and he has to look away again before it can rebound on the grief Eobard feels, before it can grow so large that neither of them can contain it. “He’ll never want for anything.” Eobard’s throat tightens. “I can’t do much, but I can do that.”

“Okay,” Iris says, equally quiet. They’ve all taken to speaking in low voices around each other. Eobard thinks that if someone were to shout, they might shatter. “I – I have to go. You’ll call – ”

“If anything changes,” Eobard promises. They exchange this promise every day, as the clock walks around: Iris and Eobard, Eobard and Joseph, Joseph and Iris. Eddie, too, when he comes, though as the days have gone by he’s taken over Iris’ former role of providing care and support, freeing her to sit by her adopted brother’s bedside.

Eobard adds, as he has also started doing, “Take my car.”

The first time he’d made this offer Iris had felt the need to argue, for the sake of her family pride, that public transportation would be fine. Today Iris only nods. It’s not like it’s any inconvenience to Eobard: he’s going nowhere, he won’t notice its absence for the space of an hour. It _will_ allow Iris to cry in private, should she wish to, and fix her make-up before getting to the office.

“Thank you, Dr. Thawne,” Iris says. She shakes his free hand, and leans over to kiss Barry’s unresponsive cheek. She starts to say something else, but chokes on it, and leaves quickly.

Eobard sits down in her vacated chair without releasing Barry’s hand. It’s a very comfortable chair, thickly cushioned with wide armrests and a reclining back. Not the usual plastic type found in hospitals. That had been another of the things Eobard could do. He can’t make Barry wake up, but he can make the wait more comfortable. As he’ll be able to make Barry more comfortable, if Barry doesn’t wake up.

He really isn’t sure at all what good any of that is.

* * *

Barry stares at the brick wall leading to his lab with a sense of dread.

“Come on,” Malcolm says. “You’ve already done your Ph.D., your unrequited feelings for your adopted sister – which was _awkward_ , by the way, thanks for dragging me along on that one – ”

“You’re not actually my twin,” Barry retorts. “You’re part of me, and you get to deal with things at the same time the rest of me does.”

“Ouch,” Malcolm says lightly. “But after those two, _and_ your family’s deaths, really, what’s so bad about this door?”

“I don’t know,” Barry admits. He lays a hand on the brick, tentatively. “I guess that’s what scares me so much.”

“Fear itself?” Malcolm quips. “We both know better than that.”

“Shut up,” Barry says mildly. He doesn’t need to use force. The wall melts before him as he begins to step through.

“Barry!” a familiar, beloved voice calls, drawing Barry’s attention like a filing to a magnet. There, standing by Barry’s chair. Turning to face him. It’s Eobard, looking at him and smiling. “You’ve come home at last.”

Behind Barry, the wisp of Malcolm vanishes.

* * *

There’s a knock on the door to Barry’s room. Eobard hears it, but doesn’t move. The nurses always knock, but it’s not a request for entry when they do it; it’s a polite annunciation before they enter anyway and get on with doing whatever it is they need to do. Eobard just continues talking to Barry. He’s in the middle of telling Barry about the founding of STAR Labs. Nora features heavily in these tales. He’d always meant to tell Barry them all, one day. Now he hopes to lure his husband closer by filling his ears with things he loves.

His flow is interrupted when the knock comes again. It’s not nurses, then. Nor is it Joseph West; West isn’t due for another three hours, and he wouldn’t have knocked, either. Eobard looks around, speech faltering, as the knock comes a third time.

“I’ll be right back,” Eobard tells Barry, setting his husband’s hand down on the sheets and moving towards the door. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Thawne,” Hartley Rathaway says. Eobard takes in the sight of him, and Cisco at his side, with a spike of guilt-flavored gladness. The guilt is for forgetting that Hartley had been injured – indeed, that anyone except Barry had been injured. Of course Thawne Industries has been doing all the right things – covering hospital costs, helping with recovery, ensuring access to mental health professionals, extending additional leave to the injured – but Eobard has been neglecting his personal duties there. It’s Meloni who has been visiting the wounded. Dealing with paperwork and insurance, both the victims’ and Thawne Industries’. Bolstering morale and presenting the caring, responsible face of the company. Barry has been Eobard’s sole focus.

The gladness is that Hartley and Cisco are here, and that Hartley, in particular, looks remarkably well. He’s standing a little stiffly, and there’s a faint gauntness in his face that hadn’t been there before, but his color is good. He’s dressed normally for a social call as a Rathaway, suit and tie, with no visible wounds except a small butterfly bandage closing a cut over one eyebrow. More reassuringly, Cisco has lost the tense, pinched look around his eyes and lips that Eobard remembers vividly from that morning outside of STAR Labs when they’d both been evacuated. Hartley could probably conceal anything that isn’t actively restricting him to his bed. Cisco could not. Hartley must be all right, if Cisco looks calm – and he does, though he keeps darting glances at Hartley, as if he can’t help reassuring himself that his fiancé is well.

“Is now a bad time?” Hartley makes no move to enter, though his eyes stray past Eobard’s shoulder to Barry, still unconscious on the bed. “We can visit another time.”

“No,” Eobard says, “please, come in.” He swallows, stepping back, and admits, “Now is as good a time as any.”

“So there’s still been no change.” Cisco is holding a vase with a floral arrangement and a stuffed animal, which appears to be some kind of a cross between a rabbit and a bear. It’s adorable. Barry will love it.

“No, no change.” Eobard gestures towards the small table that had been set up in one corner of the room, when the first get-well and good-wishes gifts had started arriving. Iris West has nicknamed it ‘the shrine’. “I’ll make sure Barry learns of your generosity when he awakens.”

Hartley takes the vase and bunny-bear from Cisco and puts them on the table. His practiced eye sweeps over the other gifts, cataloguing them. The shrine is dominated by a large wreathlike arrangement from the McGees. Really, from Tina. The flowers on it are starting to droop slightly, though Eobard, Iris, and Joseph West are all taking turns watering it. Other, smaller arrangements cluster nearby. The Snows had sent a moderate bouquet, along with a note in Elsa’s own hand expressing her hopes for Barry’s rapid recovery. There are comparable gifts from the other major families of Central City. And beyond: Bruce Wayne had sent a stuffed animal all the way from Gotham. Hartley arranges the Rathaways’ contribution nearby, making sure the card is visibly placed, then turns back towards the bed.

Eobard has turned the comfortable chair towards him invitingly. “Please,” he says. “You must still be recovering.”

Hartley hesitates, politeness visibly warring with need. Cisco makes the decision for him. “C’mon, Hart, you still get tired easy,” he says. “And you know Dr. Thawne doesn’t offer what he doesn’t mean.”

This seems to decide Hartley; he accepts the chair, sinking into it with a sigh. Eobard notices he still keeps his torso fairly stiff. “Ribs?” he asks.

Cisco nods, snagging another chair from against the wall and tugging it up next to Hartley’s. The other chairs in the room have also been replaced, though they’re not as nice as the one Hartley is now using. Eobard claims one for himself. Cisco says, “Yeah. Bruised, mostly. Two cracked.” He looks down at Barry and his shoulders droop with sorrow. “I thought Hart was worst hurt, till I heard about Barry.”

“You were closer to the bomb,” Eobard says. A shiver of remembered fear runs through him. “I’m so glad it wasn’t worse.”

“We weren’t in our lab,” Hartley says. “We’d gone across to pod seven to talk about – ” he stops, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, we weren’t in the lab. The elevators were between us and the bomb. The fire chief said the elevator shaft acted like a lightning rod, channeling most of the force of the bomb up and down the shaft and diverting it away from the rest of the floor.”

Eobard nods. He’s heard this already. He can thank the fact that Barry hadn’t been in the lab for Barry’s survival, but the elevator had scarcely been safer. A stroke of bad luck to balance out the good.

“A bunch of stuff fell over. We all fell over, too,” Cisco says. “Hartley got the worst of it, for us. We got to the pod seven shelter area and just… waited.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t worse,” Eobard repeats.

“How’s Barry?”

There’s a moment of dead silence. “No change,” Eobard says finally, and his voice cracks.

Hartley and Cisco look at each other. Eobard’s gaze drops; their exchange of glances is intimate and private, and he can’t stand it right now. But when he lowers his eyes he sees that Cisco is clutching Hartley’s hand so tightly that their knuckles have turned white.

“Have they started talking about long-term care yet?” Hartley asks.

Eobard nods. He focuses on Barry’s chest, rising and falling. “Meloni’s talking to contractors.”

“If my family can render any assistance,” Hartley says formally, “please call upon us.”

“Thank you,” Eobard whispers. It’s not the first such offer Eobard’s received. Tina’s had been expected, of course. Hartley’s is unsurprising. But other families had offered support, too, albeit in less broad terms. Cobalt’s bomb has united the blueblood community in a way he had probably never expected. It’s his choice of venue: STAR Labs is one of the premier places of work for bluebloods who have chosen to seek traditional employment in a scientific field. Almost every family in Central City had been represented in STAR Labs that day. And though Hartley Rathaway’s ribs and Brie Larvan’s ankle are the worst of the casualties after Barry, thank God, that hasn’t dampened the resulting blueblood rage and solidarity one iota.

Eobard had promised Iris West that Barry will never want for anything. It is a promise all of Central City will help him keep.

“What about Cobalt?” Cisco asks. His tone makes Eobard look up in surprise. He’s never heard such _hate_ from Cisco.

“He’ll spend the rest of his life in a mental institution,” Eobard tells them.

Cisco frowns in anger. “That’s not enough.”

“It’s what there is.” Along with the fact that, if Cobalt is ever somehow found sane, every family who’d had a child in STAR Labs last Monday will be lining up to fund the prosecution for the bombing, demanding life without parole and throw away the key.

“But don’t you want – ” Cisco begins.

Eobard shakes his head. “I want Barry to wake up,” he says. He hears his own voice, tired and despairing, and can’t even care that he’s speaking this way in front of the head of another family and their fiancé. “If vengeance could make that happen I’d be down there myself with a knife, but it won’t. It won’t. Nothing will.”

Nothing will. Barry isn’t waking up, and no power on this Earth can make him wake up. Eobard averts his gaze – from Hartley, from Cisco, from Barry – from everything. Nothing will help.

“He _will_ ,” Cisco says firmly.

Eobard tries to give Cisco the smile of gratitude that that deserves. But his eyes meet Hartley’s instead. Hartley looks back at him, somber and resigned. He’d buried his parents barely a month ago. He knows how fragile life is. How easily extinguished.

“I hope you’re right,” Eobard says, and they lapse into silence.

* * *

“Eobard?” Barry whispers.

“Welcome home!” Eobard steps forward and reaches for Barry’s shoulders. Barry feels a weight sliding off of them and looks, confused, as a coat appears in Eobard’s hands. Barry hadn’t been wearing a coat before. But Eobard is already turning to hang it up – no – there’s nowhere _to_ hang it up. Eobard is handing it off to his valet. They’re not in Barry’s office in STAR Labs anymore. They’re home. Standing in the entryway of the home they share together.

“Was your day good?” Eobard takes Barry’s arm and begins escorting him towards the dining room.

“It – it was fine,” Barry stumbles. He looks behind him frantically, but the door back to the lab has already vanished. He could try leaving through the front door of the house, but where would it take him?

Then what Eobard has asked, what he’s doing, catches up to Barry. Barry stops dead. Eobard stops, too. Turns to look at Barry with – is that _fear_?

“You’re home,” Barry says.

Eobard nods slowly.

“You’re hardly ever home before me.” Eobard is the head of an entire family, the CEO of a large conglomerate – he works many more hours than Barry, and even when he brings his work home instead of staying late at Thawne Tower, he’s never to be found waiting by the door for Barry.

Apprehension starts to coil in Barry’s stomach. He watches Eobard’s face carefully as he asks, “Is something wrong?”

“No!” Eobard says hastily. His look of fear doesn’t waver, though. “I was able to get that business with the Tates settled, don’t worry about that. It’s all taken care of. And the Snows promise they weren’t offended. It’s all fine, so…” Eobard trails off. Quietly he says, “Something happened today, didn’t it.”

He sounds resigned. Barry’s stomach drops.

“Nothing happened today,” he hears himself say. “It was a perfectly normal day.”

“That’s good! That’s great.” Eobard breaks into a relieved smile. “Let’s have dinner, then.”

Barry lets Eobard draw him forward again, but doesn’t give up his original line of questioning, though he modifies it somewhat. “Did you go into the office today?”

“Hm? You mean Thawne Tower?” Barry nods. Eobard shakes his head, laughing a little. “You know I try not to hang over Meloni’s shoulder too much. Besides, I was busy here!”

“You had to call the Tates,” Barry guesses.

Eobard pulls Barry’s chair out with a flourish that doesn’t entirely cover the way Eobard avoids looking at him. “I went in person, actually… they’re a very old family, and they appreciated the courtesy.”

Barry reaches out and puts his hand over Eobard’s, where it rests on the back of the chair. “You did that for me. Didn’t you.”

“You didn’t _mean_ it, Barry!” Eobard does look up now, meets Barry’s gaze, and he’s earnest and weary and loving and strained and endlessly, endlessly patient. “You had no idea that would be an insult – how could you? It’s only because of Miranda Tate’s Gotham scandal – anyway, you know the details now, you won’t make that mistake again. And they quite understood. I explained it all to them. It was my fault really.”

“You explained it to them,” Barry repeats woodenly. He searches Eobard’s face, looking for – he can hardly say what. For pride. For the hauteur he’d once despised. For resentment or anger, even. For something other than long-suffering endurance. It doesn’t matter what Barry’s looking for: he doesn’t find it, and he knows even before he starts looking that he won’t.

“Yes. So it’s all settled. You needn’t worry about it any more.” Eobard glances uncertainly between Barry and the chair. “Won’t you sit down? Are you sure nothing’s wrong? If something happened, you can tell me.”

Barry moistens his lips ad sits down, slowly. Eobard goes to his own chair and picks up his napkin. Testing, Barry says, “Actually, I did have one awkward conversation with Hartley today…”

The napkin falls from Eobard’s hands, landing on his plate in an ungraceful pile. “What about?” Eobard asks. If he’s trying to sound conversational, Barry thinks, he’s missed it by a good country mile.

“Don’t worry about it,” Barry says. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Oh, come now,” Eobard says. He attempts a smile that wavers badly. “I thought we agreed that it was my job to handle these little social issues.”

“Your job.” Barry folds his hands in his lap and stares at Eobard steadily. “What about your other job, Eobard? What about Thawne Industries?”

Eobard waves a hand dismissively. “That’s Meloni’s job now.”

_I try not to hang over Meloni’s shoulder too much,_ Eobard had said. Barry nods slowly. “Your job is cleaning up my messes.”

“That’s not how I would – ”

“What did you give the Tates?”

“Pardon?”

“The Tates hate us,” Barry says. Something shaky is sitting in his gut, something that spreads to his limbs in inches, so that soon his hands are trembling where they’re still clasped together. “They’re bluer than the Rathaways and not remotely as forgiving. They view us as a young, jumped-up family with no respect for the existing social order, and God only knows what they think of me personally. I don’t know anything about Miranda Tate’s Gotham scandal but I’ll bet it was a doozy, and if I so much as _mentioned_ it or anything connected to it they’d – Eobard, _what did you have to give them_?”

Eobard looks down at the tablecloth. He studies it, the fine china of the place settings, the beautiful glasswork, as if he’s never seen it before. “Well you know,” he says at last, voice barely audible, “they’ve always had trouble with the newer types of commerce. Manufacturing is fine, there’s been manufacturing in this country since the Industrial Revolution, they understand that – but nanotechnology? Biomolecular chemistry? Especially in Central City, where between our family and the McGees we’ve got the market cornered – there’s huge growth here, explosive growth, while manufacturing is never going to be more than a marginal business again, probably – they were shut out, and of course they didn’t like that. No one would like that.”

“STAR Labs,” Barry whispers. “You gave them, what – stock? In STAR Labs?”

“They’ve wanted to invest for a long time.” Eobard picks up his napkin again; this time he succeeds in getting it into his lap. “Really, I was being shortsighted by not letting them in sooner. Yes, they’ll have to be treated a little differently than the other investors, but the amount of capital they bring to the table – Barry!”

Barry has shoved back from the table and stood up. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears he can barely hear what Eobard is saying. Just enough to understand it. To understand it all too well.

“Because I made the wrong comment at a Society function,” he chokes out. “You had to let them get their hands on part of STAR Labs, because I – ”

“It’s not _like_ that,” Eobard tries, but Barry ignores him, because he already knows. It’s _exactly_ like that. It’s exactly like everything Barry has feared in marrying Eobard. That Barry’s inexperience, his origins, his background – his _baggage_ – will conspire to be the ruin of everything his husband holds dear.

The first time they’d met Barry had insulted Eobard in every possible way, questioning his honor, his integrity, even his sense of responsibility towards the members of his family. That last, especially, must have burned. Barry had been raised by Nora Allen and Joe West, two heads of family who would never have compromised their duty towards their families, and yet Barry knows that Eobard holds his duty even more strongly than either of them did. That sense of duty is at the core of who Eobard is. And it doesn’t just apply to the twenty-five Thawnes, but to _everyone_ to whom Eobard stands in a position of authority, from employees to social allies.

Barry had insulted that responsibility on their first meeting. Then he’d gone on to presume on it, to challenge it, at nearly every opportunity since. He can’t think of a single social occasion that’s gone by without Barry making at least one mistake that Eobard had had to clean up – spending his own social capital to make it happen, of course. Barry remembers the quiet mutterings at their engagement party. The mayor’s sneer at their wedding reception. Dr. Newton’s disdain at the Opera House. A dozen other small things that Eobard had told Barry not to worry about, to ignore, to –

“Barry?” Eobard pushes his own chair back and rises, worried, reaching one hand towards Barry. His napkin slides from his lap and lands on the floor, forgotten and ignored.

If social insults had been the worst of it, Barry thinks, backing away, that might have been okay. Barry could learn. He could study. But when you pick a penny up out of the gutter, it requires a _lot_ of polish. Barry can’t even call himself a penny. Not after what Eobard had paid for the right to marry him. Barry’s dowry-price could have bought any blueblood spouse in the world, and Eobard had paid the price twice over, once to Joe and then again to Malcolm. And then Barry has gone on costing Eobard, only now it’s not money. Now it’s Eobard’s good name. Now it’s the future opportunities available to his family. Now it’s control of the research lab Eobard had founded, that Nora had worked at, that Barry had always dreamed of –

Barry had gotten that lab _bombed_. Because of who he is. Because Eobard won’t let Barry go. Will keep reaching out towards Barry, exactly as he’s doing now, with eternal, patient, endless love.

And that means Barry will destroy Eobard, because there’s no end to Barry’s inadequacy. No amount of money or apologies or favors will fill the hole. Barry will destroy Eobard. His companies. His family. His entire life.

Barry had once stood in Eobard’s office at Thawne Tower and asked Eobard to commit a serious felony for him. The look of horror on Eobard’s face is still etched into Barry’s memory. And his words – _If I took full responsibility and then jumped off this building, maybe,_ maybe _my family’s lives wouldn’t be completely ruined –_

“Barry!” Eobard cries. “Don’t leave!”

“I’m sorry,” Barry gasps, still backing away. “I’m so sorry, I _have_ to – ”

Barry’s back hits the wall. He’s misjudged the distance; the exit to the dining-room is several steps to his right. But then suddenly the wall changes feeling between his back. Becomes porous. Barry falls back through it. The last thing he sees, before his back hits the ground of his lab again, is Eobard’s face twisted in grief and loss – and his hand, still reaching out for Barry in spite of it.


	24. Chapter 24

“Well,” Malcolm says quietly, “I’d say that answers that.”

Barry ignores him. He curls up miserably on his side and goes back to sobbing his eyes out.

“You should be celebrating,” Malcolm says. “Now we know why you’re stuck here.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Barry grinds out. “Just – just go away, leave me alone, don’t come back.”

“Do you really want that?” Malcolm crouches down next to Barry. “Because if that’s what you want, I mean what you _really_ want, that’s possible. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Then _go_.”

“It won’t happen right away.” Malcolm shakes his head. “I’m not really Malcolm, remember? I’m your memories. You want to get rid of me – I get that. Like I said. You’d’ve thought of me as someone you liked a lot more, if you liked your memories. But your memories make you who you are. You get rid of me, you get rid of that, too. You get rid of Barry Thawne.”

“Don’t you mean _Michael_ _Cobalt_?” Barry turns away from Malcolm, curling up on his other side so he won’t have to look at his twin, even briefly. “Maybe I don’t _like_ who I am.”

“That’s the problem, yeah,” Malcolm agrees.

“So go away.”

“I told you, it doesn’t work like that. It takes months to lose everything. I mean, you’re going about it the right way. The process is already starting.”

That drags Barry out of his melancholy long enough to sit up and wipe some of his tears away. “What do you mean?”

“Look.” Malcolm gestures towards Caitlin’s lab. The oldest memories are there. The memories from his childhood. Barry squints, and then sees.

“The door is all fuzzy,” he says.

“Fading,” Malcolm says. “They’ll go one by one. Once they’re all gone that’s it. I’ll be gone, too. And so will you.”

“Good,” Barry whispers.

“Oh, yeah, great,” Malcolm says. “Really, when you look at it, it’s the ultimate running away.”

Barry grabs the nearest heavy object – a paperweight that usually lives on Hartley’s desk; it’s materialized at Barry’s call, apparently – and turns and throws it at Malcolm. Malcolm, of course, vanishes. The paperweight sails through the air and shatters against the brick wall of the exit to the lab.

Wait.

It shatters, yes, but –

Barry comes to his knees, then to his feet. Then he walks over to the wall and sticks a finger through the small hole that has appeared.

“I don’t get it,” he says out loud. He’s hoping Malcolm will reappear and give him some answers, but no familiar voice answers him. Or at least –

Barry closes his eyes. There is a familiar voice in his ears, but it’s not Malcolm’s. It’s Eobard’s.

He turns immediately to the door to his lab, but it’s closed. It’s still closed. He isn’t hearing Eobard from there, from that horrible future that is Barry’s worst fear.

So if he isn’t hearing Eobard from _there_ –

Slowly Barry turns back towards the remaining brick wall. Leans in closer and puts his ear to the hole.

He listens.

* * *

“…reviewed the plans yesterday.” Eobard reaches for the bottle of water sitting on Barry’s nightstand. His throat’s dry; he’s been talking for hours. The sky is getting dark outside the windows of Barry’s hospital room. West will be arriving soon.

Eobard shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts. “They’ll be starting renovations on Monday,” he tells Barry. “It shouldn’t take them long. A few days. The hospital has agreed you can stay until then.”

He falls silent then, having exhausted the topic of the renovations planned to Barry’s suite. He’s told Barry about every detail, from the equipment that will be installed to the modifications to the bathroom that will let the caregiver bathe him. The small additional suite that will be installed off Barry’s rooms, for the caregiver to live.

That’s a new topic. Eobard takes another drink of water and says, “I’m starting interviews tomorrow. In the morning, while you’re with Iris. Don’t worry, it won’t take away from my being here with you. I’m hoping to find someone who will take the job on full-time. I may not find the right person right away, though. If I don’t we’ll rotate through some candidates in shifts. All trained nurses, of course. They’ll know how to do everything you need.”

Barry doesn’t respond. Of course not.

“I’ve talked with Meloni.” Eobard swallows. “She’s amenable to beginning to take over some of the smaller corporations, manage them directly. And some of the social load, too. We can’t do it all at once. Well, we _can_ … some families do it that way. The heir is the heir, until one day they’re not, and you’d better swim or you’ll sink.” Eobard shakes his head. “We’re not like that. But I thought I had more time… I thought _we_ had more time.” No, Eobard doesn’t want to think about that. He puts it aside, deliberately, locking it in the vault where he keeps all such thoughts now. “It may be as much as a year before I can fully retire,” he says regretfully. “I’m sorry, Barry. I can’t compromise the family. But soon I’ll be able to focus on you full time. We’ll start a research lab focused exclusively on brain injuries. We’ll – we’ll – ”

Eobard hears his voice strangle off to nothing in honest surprise. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with it. He’s been talking to Barry for hours on end, day in and day out, for nearly a week now. He hasn’t had trouble before. He’s used to talking. Meetings, phone calls, Society events… his voice has never failed him before. He goes to clear his throat, to try to recover his voice that way, and finds he can’t. There’s something in his throat that won’t go away. That seems to be expanding, swelling even. He gasps for breath, and it comes out as a ragged sob.

He hasn’t cried in years. Decades. He doesn’t cry. Thawnes don’t, as a general rule. Emilia never had. Except, except… except for the time after Ethan had died, when Eobard had gone to meet his mother for their daily tea. He’d still been a child then, still living at home and attending day school and struggling with the seriousness of youth to live up to everything expected of him, in a world that was suddenly missing Father and therefore smiles and playful roughhousing and occasionally taking the afternoon off to drive out to the state forest and hike. Eobard had gotten to the tea room that day to find it empty, which had been most unusual. Had gone exploring, and found Emilia in the set of rooms that had used to be Ethan’s.

It had been the first and last time Eobard had ever seen his mother cry.

Thawnes don’t break down. They’re cold-blooded, even by blueblood standards. They don’t show emotion. Eobard doesn’t know if that’s a product of nature or of upbringing, but there’s no denying that it has been an asset to their family, as they’d risen from modest beginnings to the heights of Central City Society. Eobard fights the breakdown now with everything he can. Not because it’s unbecoming – but because the lesson he’d learned from Emilia is that the only acceptable time for a breakdown is when one’s spouse has died, and he refuses to concede, even by that small amount, that Barry might not wake up again.

But the weight of sorrow, of patience, of the newfound bleakness of a future without Barry, rolls over Eobard and overwhelms him. The tears won’t be stopped. He clings to Barry’s hand and weeps, and cannot stop.

* * *

Barry sags against the brick wall in his mind. Defeat weighs on his shoulders, heavy and ponderous.

Malcolm reappears across the room. He sits cross-legged on a lab table and doesn’t speak.

“Part of me thought he’d be better off without me,” Barry says to Malcolm. Pleads. “Part of me thought he’d be _happier_.”

“He _loves_ you,” Malcolm says.

“I know that. I know, but – ”

“But what?”

Barry rubs at his eyes; they’re dry, but he can still hear the horrible sound of Eobard crying. He’s never heard it before, but he knows what it must be. There’s something universal about crying. Something that transcends all the other differences between two people.

“If he didn’t love me, I couldn’t hurt him so badly,” Barry finally says. “If he were – like you, say. The real Malcolm. If I started messing up the Cobalt family name, the real Malcolm would just never let me out of the family house again. Eobard wouldn’t do that. He’d try to fix the mistake, and if I kept making mistakes he’d just try to fix them.”

Malcolm shakes his head. “That’s his choice.”

“I don’t want that for him!”

“That’s his choice, too.”

Barry tips his head back against the wall. “I can’t make him not love me,” he sighs. “If I could – ”

“You wouldn’t,” Malcolm says. “I’ve seen too many of your memories. You’re desperate for love.”

Barry half-smiles, unthinking. “And Eobard has so much of it to give.”

“Lucky he wants to give it to you, then.”

“Yeah. Lucky.”

Malcolm nods. “So how about waking up now?”

Barry looks forward. “Why _do_ you look like Malcolm?”

“I told you why.”

“Yeah, you did,” Barry concedes. “But – if there were another reason?”

Malcolm gives Barry’s half-smile back to him, a lopsided mirror. “Maybe it was so that you wouldn’t want to stick around any longer than you had to.”

Barry, startled, laughs. Laughs, and falls backwards, backwards, through a wall that isn’t there anymore, and then somehow he’s falling _up,_ spiraling up and spreading out into a body that has ten fingers and ten toes and a really, really massive headache –

* * *

Eobard’s small crying jag wears itself out soon. He’s not used to the exercise; he can’t sustain it. He fishes for the small box of tissues on Barry’s bedside and goes through three or four. Today the box is pale blue with green flowers. It’s been changing colors and designs every day or two. The Wests must be using it. Well, now it’s Eobard’s turn. He takes a deep breath and wonders if he ought to go into the small attached bathroom and splash some cold water on his face. His eyes and nose feel swollen.

Yes, probably. West will be here soon. Eobard sighs. He’ll want to be presentable, when West comes… he goes to stand, tugging his hand from Barry’s as he does.

Except his hand doesn’t come. Eobard freezes in mid-rise, staring down in shock at their joined hands. Barry’s hand has closed around Eobard’s. It’s closed. It’s moved.

It’s –

It’s –

“Barry,” Eobard whispers, eyes snapping up to meet –

_Eobard,_ Barry’s lips move. No sound comes out – of course not, he’s been unconscious for a week, intubated for part of that – Eobard reaches instinctively for the water by Barry’s bed, then realizes that that might not be the best thing to give him, then sits there in helpless astonishment at the sight of his husband’s eyes.

“I thought I was never going to see your eyes again,” Eobard says unthinkingly.

Barry tries to smile at him. Eobard sees the twitch of Barry’s lips, the pull of his muscles. It doesn’t quite happen. Exhaustion or continued ill health or both conspire to stop it. But Barry’s eyes smile, before they slip closed again.

“Barry!” Eobard comes the rest of the way to his feet. He’s read about this, he’s read about all of this – a coma patient may wake briefly, just enough to give hope, and then sink back into themselves without so much as a ripple –

Barry’s eyes open partly, then close again. He’s not unconscious. Just exhausted. And he still can’t speak – Eobard looks about frantically for the call button, and presses it. Then he presses it again, just to be sure.

“I love you so much,” Eobard tells Barry frantically. “I – ” Sudden fear chokes him. What if Barry hadn’t known him? What if Barry had just smiled to see another human being, without understanding –

Barry had called him by name. Spoken his name. Whatever else might he might have lost, Barry had known Eobard. He’d awoken, and he knows Eobard.

Eobard starts crying again. The nurse who comes into the room and cheers and grabs for the phone at her belt to summon more help sees it. So does Joseph West, arriving for his shift minutes later. So does the doctor on call, and the other nurses, and everyone else – everyone else in the entire hospital, for all Eobard cares. Eobard’s husband is awake, and knows who Eobard is. He’ll never care who sees him crying again.

“I love you,” he tells his husband again. His tears fall onto their joined hands, and Barry squeezes them again. 

* * *

West calls Iris, who comes running with Eddie. They all crowd in a corner and get hopelessly in the way while various responsiveness tests are performed. The initial results, they’re informed, are very promising. “We’ll continue to work with Mr. Thawne to determine the extent of any long-term issues,” she concludes, “but so far, this is good.” Barry had been able to tell his name, the last date he remembers – which had been the fateful Monday that Cobalt’s bomb had gone off – the President, and other relevant facts of his life.

Barry had given his family name as _Thawne_ without a second of hesitation. His eyes have followed Eobard around the room. The moment the crowd around his bedside thins enough to permit it, he holds his hand out towards Eobard, though he has to let it fall back to the bed before Eobard can get there to take it.

“Eo,” he rasps, managing to sound happy in spite of his obvious exhaustion and the fact that his voice is only barely audible.

“Barry,” Eobard echoes back, just like every other half of every sappy couple featured in every romantic movie Eobard had used to avoid.

“I think I’m going to fall asleep now,” Barry tells him.

“Okay,” Eobard says. He has a moment of fear at the thought of Barry’s eyes slipping closed again, but the doctor has already said that sleep is okay, even good; now that Barry’s awoken, and remained awake for this long, he’s unlikely to slip back into a coma.

“But I love you.” Barry’s hand squeezes his, faintly.

“I love you too,” Eobard manages. There are tears in his eyes again. He still doesn’t care.

He’s never going to care again. Barry is awake, and knows Eobard – Eobard is never going to care about anything else, ever again.

He has everything he needs, right here.


	25. Chapter 25

“Cheers!” everyone cries, and drinks their champagne.

There’s a round of applause immediately after, and Eobard joins in enthusiastically. The tradition of the toast is one that’s absent from most blueblood weddings, but Iris had insisted on incorporating it, and Eobard thinks it had gone off fairly well. Of course news that it would be included had been discreetly leaked, and everyone in attendance had had time to quietly brush up on the required etiquette. Eobard had been prepared for a certain amount of suppressed amusement among the more highly-bred guests, but it seems he’s done his class a disservice. There are a few patiently tolerant faces within sight, but most people Eobard can see are placid at the worst, charmed at the best.

Barry doesn’t join in the applause. It’s not that he doesn’t love his sister or wish her well on her wedding day; he’s just too occupied getting his glass where it needs to go. His fine motor skills are still occasionally unreliable. And he handles his glass now with his left hand: his left side had been far less affected by the head wound and subsequent coma than his right. When Barry had first woken up, he’d been unable to muster any fine motor control on the right at all. It’s been a long road with a lot of physical therapy to get to where he is today. But here Barry is, smiling and wishing Iris well.

Eobard has often had cause, in the months after Cobalt’s attack, to marvel at Barry. At his strength. He’d come out of the coma unusually centered, and it’s been hard to knock him off balance ever since.

“How can you be so patient?” Eobard had asked one day, not long after Barry had been allowed to come home. The renovations had proceeded after all, but more on Eobard’s original plan than on the desperate one concocted under the assumption that Barry would need twenty-four-hour care. There’s a handpicked physical therapist residing with them now instead of the nurse Eobard had once contemplated. The modest home gym has been expanded. There are additional grips and handholds everywhere, and new safety features, for the times when Barry’s body forgets it’s not still in a coma and stops obeying him. Eobard had had to laugh at himself, though, after asking the question. He had been used to thinking himself patient, but when it comes to Barry’s recovery he’s greedy, eager for miracles.

Barry had looked thoughtful, and considered Eobard gravely. “Being in the coma, it wasn’t just like being asleep,” he’d said. “I thought through a lot of things.”

With which answer Eobard has had to be content. Barry had added, apologetically, “I’m not sure how much of it I’ll ever be able to talk about – but if I do want to talk about it, you’ll be the one I come to, I promise,” and kissed Eobard so sweetly that Eobard had forgotten to be worried for a moment.

The post-toast applause trails off, and everyone returns to their meals. Eobard and Barry are at the head of one of the two main guest tables, positioned just down from the elevated table where the wedding party themselves sit. Barry’s injury had precluded his being part of the party, alas, but he’d been able to join in the formal photographs afterwards, at least. West heads the other main guest table. Prominent members and allies of each of the two families sit with them, Thawne and West.

Tina, who is seated next to Barry, refills his water glass without comment and restarts their conversation. Eobard just watches them for a long moment. Barry is exquisite in his formalwear. As he’d been, once, long ago, at a STAR Labs gala. As he’s been many times since. But Eobard’s never grown tired of being able to look. Barry sparkles in this setting, like he’d been born to the glittering lights of Society. He’ll sparkle in an entirely different way when Eobard gets him home again, and the shining façade of Mr. Thawne melts away into the warmth of Eobard’s husband.

“Remembering your own wedding?” Meloni asks, drawing Eobard’s attention away from Barry.

“And wedding night, I’d guess,” Andromeda laughs from across the table.

Eobard gives her a repressive look, but relents a moment later. Andromeda’s young, halfway through an arts course at Yale, and hopelessly in love with some young popinjay studying philosophy. Of course she’s easily distracted by warmer thoughts. There’s no real harm in it. Eobard’s done his checking – Andromeda’s beau is from a good New Haven family, bright, and interested in the same kind of good time Andromeda is. Their forever love will burn brightly for perhaps six months, and then they’ll part. Or perhaps Eobard will be wrong, and this time next year he’ll be negotiating another marriage contract. Who can say?

“As long as Eobard isn’t thinking about business,” Barry says, leaning over to join the conversation. “This is supposed to be a party.”

“I’m not,” Eobard says virtuously.

“ _I_ am,” Meloni says mournfully. “Uncle Eo, is it too late to change my mind about being your heir?”

There’s a round of good-natured laughter at this. Eobard has been delegating more and more of the business side of the family to Meloni, easing gracefully – or so he hopes – into a kind of half-retirement. He’d been considering more, but Barry had resisted the idea. Somewhat to Eobard’s surprise.

“I would have thought you’d want to spend more time together,” he’d said, when Barry had first protested Eobard’s approach.

“Of course I do,” Barry had said. “But I want to spend time with _you_. And part of you being you is you being – well – who you are!”

This had not, admittedly, made a lot of sense at first. But they’d refilled their wine glasses and moved from the dinner table to the den, turned on the fireplace and talked long into the night. The bottom line is that Eobard _is_ Eobard, and retirement – full retirement – probably _wouldn’t_ suit him. Eobard had had to admit as much, to Barry’s triumph.

“Besides, _I’m_ not stopping working,” Barry had said.

“You could,” Eobard had said hesitantly. This, too, had been a subject he’d meant to bring up. “There’s more than enough money – well, you know that – and there are other things you could do. If you don’t want to go back to STAR Labs – ”

“Try to keep me away,” Barry had laughed. He’d been sitting up unassisted – still a new thing; he’d been home only a few days at that point – and even gesturing to make his points; he’d looked, for a moment, as if nothing bad had ever happened to him, and Eobard’s heart had ached with how much he’d wanted to wrap Barry in soft cloths and hide him away where nothing bad ever _could_ happen to him. But there: Eobard loves Barry as Barry is, and if that means letting Barry go back to the place he’d been hurt, that’s what Eobard is going to have to do. Though not, he’d reminded himself, without making a few improvements to its security first.

Ultimately, though, the bigger issue had proven not to be security but Barry’s still-shaky muscular control. Half of what goes on in the Tank is thought work, which Barry can continue to do without issue; Eobard is daily, even hourly thankful that Barry’s mind hasn’t been affected by his injury. But the other half is rapid testing and prototyping. Barry comes home from his first day back at the lab discouraged by the number of things that had quite literally slipped through his fingers.

“Cisco ended up running my tests for me, and he says he doesn’t mind, but that can’t continue,” Barry had said, frustrated. “He’s got work of his own to do, and we’re already short-handed now that Hartley’s had to leave.”

The business of running the Rathaway family has finally claimed Hartley, and he’d had to leave STAR Labs. Eobard quite understands that, as the head of a large and powerful family himself, but it _does_ leave Barry’s pod short-handed, and with no obvious candidate to fill the hole Hartley had left. It certainly doesn’t leave Cisco or Caitlin with an excess of free time. Especially not with Cisco’s work hours becoming very strict – no more early mornings or late nights – to allow him to begin taking up _his_ new duties as Hartley’s husband-to-be. Eobard had cast about for a problem to this dilemma, and then, in a burst of inspiration, had Gideon look up a particular phone number.

“Well,” Erica Freeman had said, unblinking, when Eobard had made her the offer, “It’s not how I _wanted_ to get into the Tank, but I suppose this gives me ample opportunity to demonstrate my brilliance,” and she’d been quite right. It hadn’t taken more than a few weeks of Erica being Barry’s hands – and sitting in on Barry’s pod’s meetings, and helping troubleshoot experiments, and contributing ideas of her own, and arguing spiritedly with Cisco and Caitlin – for Erica to step into the spot Hartley had vacated on her own merits. By then she’d also rigged up half-a-dozen assistive devices, and Barry’s motor control had improved, and at full staff, it didn’t matter so much that the others still had to help Barry out occasionally. So there the situation had stood, and there it stands to this day.

Out on the dance floor, Iris and Eddie are swaying, eyes only for each other. Half a dozen other couples are out there with them. On a sudden impulse, Eobard turns to Barry and asks, “May I have this dance?”

Barry’s eyes brighten, but he warns, “I’ll step on your toes.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Eobard says, and it does.

They reach the floor as the band is segueing from one song into another. The previous song had been of moderate tempo, or Eobard wouldn’t have suggested dancing. He hesitates, worried that they meant to swing into something faster, but instead they slow down and begin playing a waltz. It’s not the exact waltz that had played at Eobard and Barry’s wedding. But it makes Eobard’s heart warm to hear it, and as he takes his husband into his arms, he sees that Barry is smiling, too.

They’re married now. Eobard can hold Barry much closer than he had at their reception. Barry can lay his head on Eobard’s shoulder when he tires partway through, and leave it to Eobard to move them through the small, compact three-step they’re doing. He does not, contrary to his prediction, step on Eobard’s toes.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

“And I you,” Eobard tells him.

Eobard has to help Barry off the floor at the end of the dance, and when Barry looks at the sorbet listlessly and doesn’t reach for his spoon, Eobard knows the evening’s over. “Meloni – ”

“I’m texting James,” she says, phone already in hand. “I can handle the last hour.”

“Thank you.”

“We need to say goodbye,” Barry says, starting to struggle to his feet again.

Eobard holds up a hand. “I am sure the Wests won’t mind stopping by our table,” he says, and Barry nods and settles back down again.

Iris and Eddie don’t mind at all. Eobard doesn’t think they’d mind anything short of an asteroid falling into the middle of the reception hall. Iris is starry-eyed and beaming, showing off the new Mr. West to all and sundry. Eddie has the dazed look of someone who hasn’t quite grasped that this isn’t a dream. Eobard knows that look well. He remembers seeing it staring back at him from the mirror for days after his own wedding. For weeks after Barry had awoken from Malcolm’s coma. Sometimes he catches himself looking at Barry and knows that look is still on his face. It makes him smile, fondly, to see it on Eddie’s.

“Dr. Thawne, Mr. Thawne,” Iris says, brushing at her black wedding gown to settle it in place and giggling – the champagne, Eobard knows, is excellent. “May I introduce my husband, Edward West?” Eddie stands straight at her side, impeccable in his still-crisp white tuxedo. His accents are blue. Sapphires. They bring out his eyes.

“Charmed,” Eobard says, with a courtly bow.

“Quite a pleasure, Mr. West,” Barry says solemnly, shaking Eddie’s hand as if they’ve never met. Then he, too, breaks into a grin. The look he and Iris share is too complex to break down entirely, but their warm mutual affection and shared amusement at the vagaries of blueblood social rituals are plain.

“There will be a brunch tomorrow,” Eddie says, as if Barry doesn’t know this perfectly well already. “May we look forward to your company?”

“Of course,” Barry says, narrowly beating out Eobard’s answer of _if we’re up for it._ The look Barry gives Eobard is a perfectly domestic one, promising reckoning later. Barry enjoys it when Eobard takes care of him, but hates to be coddled. It’s a fine line that Eobard does not always succeed in walking.

“You’re leaving for your honeymoon tomorrow evening?” Eobard asks, by way of avoiding that look and contributing to the conversation.

“Yes, we’re spending a month in Bali,” Iris says, keeping up the polite fiction that Eobard knows nothing of their plans. Had not been involved in every aspect of this wedding, including putting up the money for it. As of now, their two families are completely separate; there are no lingering links between them through which information might be expected to pass. Not as it had been after Eobard and Barry’s wedding, when Eddie and Iris’ engagement had provided a pretext. There is nothing holding them together now but friendship, and at their level, even friendship has rules.

It’s inconvenient. Eddie and Iris had better have a child soon, so Eobard can be their godparent and both families can get back to a more relaxed footing. From the way the couple can’t keep their hands off each other, even while theoretically making polite conversation, Eobard thinks they won’t have to wait long.

“Bali is lovely,” Eobard says, rather than letting out any hint of such thoughts. “My legal assistant Ms. Gideon just spent a month there, and enjoyed herself thoroughly. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says, and he and Iris look at each other and giggle again.

“I’m afraid my husband and I must withdraw somewhat early,” Eobard goes on. “He still becomes fatigued easily as a result of his recent injury. Please accept our apologies, and our assurances that we have only the highest respect for you both and the fondest wishes for your marriage.”

Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s grown used to being the one speaking up in formal situations, drawing on his more extensive training in etiquette and proper behavior, but that’s not appropriate at the moment. Eobard is speaking as the head of his family. Iris is the West heir; she outranks Eddie now, socially, though many won’t make the distinction, and it’s hers to speak.

“We’re grateful for your consideration,” Iris says, creditably. “Naturally we wish only the best for your husband’s continued health, and would never consider that you acted from any other motive.”

“We’ll look forward to seeing you at tomorrow’s brunch,” Eddie adds, supportively.

“Thank you.” Eobard bends to help Barry up. Barry accepts this help, but then throws himself into hugging Iris.

“I’m so happy for you guys,” Barry says. His eyes are suspiciously bright. “I hope you’re as happy as I am.”

“We will be,” Iris promises. “Thank you – God, Barry, none of this would he _happening_ if it wasn’t for you – ” she hugs Barry again. “I can never thank you enough!”

Eobard has to clear his own throat and turn away slightly, extending a hand towards Eddie. His favorite cousin, the one who had always seen him for himself – not his, not anymore. Not a Thawne. But Eobard has given Eddie up to his best happiness, and received more in return than he could ever have hoped. Eobard shakes Eddie’s hand with sincere good-will.

“Behave yourself, now,” Eobard says. “Remember you were born a Thawne.”

Eddie’s smile is lopsided. “Society won’t let me forget it,” he says ruefully. “But I’m glad I had it to offer Iris. And our kids. Oh, don’t give me that look,” he adds. “You know we’re going to have them as soon as possible, and yes, you can be their godparent. Honestly, Eo. Who else would we ask?”

“It’s not proper to speak of such things,” Eobard says, but he’s grinning. The Wests have rubbed off on them both, it seems.

“You know what, Eo, I think in a generation or so the rules of Society will look very different.” Eddie lets Eobard’s hand go, and turns to gaze around the room. “Just look at what’s happening. You and Barry, me and Iris. Rathaway and his fiancé. Have you seen who McGee’s heir is dating?”

“I have,” Eobard admits.

“New blood’s important. The smart families realize that. New ideas, new opportunities. And new rules. Things are changing. One day we’re going to be Great-Uncle Ernest, sitting in a corner moaning about how nobody does things _right_ anymore.”

“Nah,” Eobard says cheerfully. “I’m old enough already that I’ll die before things change _that_ much.”

“What is it with you and bringing up dying in the middle of weddings?” Eddie says, laughing.

Eobard shrugs. “I suppose weddings make me think of the future.”

“And is death really the only thing you see in your future that’s worth looking forward to?” The look Eddie is giving Eobard is reproachful.

Eobard shakes his head. He watches Barry and Iris try to separate, then fall back into hugging each other again, still thanking each other repeatedly and arguing over which of them is going to be happiest, which of them has come out best. Eobard knows that they’re both wrong: neither of them can possibly lay claim to more than second best. Eobard is the clear winner here, and he always has been.

“Not at all,” Eobard says, smiling at Eddie, as he goes to reclaim his husband.

* * *

Barry dozes on his husband’s shoulder as James drives them home. He gets tired more easily than he used to, but it’s getting better. Every day is better than the one before. One day, he thinks, he’ll wake up and feel like himself again. Maybe even one day soon.

Outside the car, the leaves are turning towards gold. Barry regrets the end of summer more than ever before. The warm weather had been a boon to his recovery. Under the hot summer sun, his hands and arms had responded to him better than ever since his injury, and he’d never felt drained just by sitting outside. Bette, his physical therapist, says that Barry’s finally putting on the fat and muscle he’d lost during a week of forced inactivity and getting his nutrition through an IV. She says he’ll continue to improve even after the weather turns told. He hopes she’s right.

But he’d been able to come out to see Iris and Eddie married. Barry smiles as the car turns off the freeway and onto the local roads that will take them to the foothills of Central City and home. It seems like it’s been a long time coming. The path they’d taken to get here had certainly turned out to be more circuitous than any of them would have thought. Now that the wedding’s over, it feels like the end of something. This last year has been a roller coaster, and there are things that Barry will be happy to have in his rearview mirror – Malcolm Cobalt and Barry’s own recovery among them – but there’s still a curious bittersweetness in letting go. It’s like the last night of the sleepaway camp he’d gone to every summer, when they’d all gone to sleep knowing that when they wake up in the morning their parents would be coming to take them home. At the end of two weeks of camp everyone had missed their parents, even the ones who hadn’t been homesick to start. They’d all been eager to see all the friends they’d left behind. To leave behind the petty arguments and enemies they’d made. But they’d all known, too, that they’d be leaving something behind they could never get back again.

Barry thinks that life will certainly be easier from now on. It will settle down into new routines, and new small everyday happinesses will take over from the highs and lows of weddings and funerals and court cases and explosions. On balance, Barry is ready for the change. But he feels a pang of regret all the same. Falling in love with Eobard had been so magical – he’s not ready to let that go yet.

“We’re home,” Eobard says, nudging Barry. The reflected light from the porch illuminates his soft smile. “Let’s go inside.”

Barry feels his return smile lighting up his face. There’s something about the way Eobard says even the most banal of things that makes Barry think that, maybe, he never _will_ stop falling in love with his husband.

It’s second nature now to enter the house and hand over his outer garments to Ruth or Rachel or one of the other servants, whomever is on duty at that particular time. Natural, too, to kiss Eobard briefly and go to his own dressing-room to remove the rest of his clothes. Hang them up for one of Lisa Snart’s assistants to take away the next day for cleaning. Her work with the Thawne family now makes up a full third of her tailoring business. She makes all of Barry’s clothes as well as Eobard’s, and Meloni is starting to make more use of Lisa’s services, too, as she takes over more and more responsibility.

Barry’s gotten used to this life. At least the version of it he lives. He’s not a traditional blueblood spouse. He’s never going to be. And he makes mistakes – even now, even after months of lessons and practice. But none of them have been devastating yet. And though Eobard _has_ had to smooth things over a time or twelve, it hasn’t been disastrous. It’s been… okay.

He walks through the door into their shared bedroom and smiles. _More_ than okay.

“Remember our wedding night?” Barry asks, as he slides under the covers next to his husband.

“Mmm,” Eobard says reminiscently. “I do.” His smile takes on a brief tinge of guilt, which Barry smooths away with a kiss.

“Stop thinking about that. I have.” It’s the truth. Tonight, with Iris and Eddie’s wedding, yes, he’s thought of Malcolm. But it’s the first time he’s allowed Malcolm to cross his mind since Barry had walked out of Arkham, the one and only time he’d visited Malcolm after his recovery.

His twin hadn’t been there, anyway. There had been a body that had looked like Malcolm’s. A voice that had sounded like his. But his words had made no sense, not even the twisted kind of sense that Malcolm had used to make. Behind his eyes the light had been gone. There’s nothing left of Malcolm Cobalt. Out of all of the boys that had gone into Strange’s nursery that night, Barry is the only one left. He’d determined then to have the happiest life possible, for all of them – Malcolm and Michael, Nora and Charlene, and the original Barry Allen, may he rest in peace.

It hasn’t been hard. Happiness is all around him, just waiting for him to reach out and take it.

Barry reaches out and takes his husband’s hand, drawing Eobard’s arm around him. “Make love to me?”

Eobard frowns. “You were tired at the reception.”

Barry grins. “So I won’t move around a lot.”

“Do you want…?”

After a moment, Barry shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “Not this time.”

For a while, after his injury, Barry had craved being restrained during sex. The restraints had freed him of the obligation of movement. Made it _okay_ that he didn’t always have the strength, or that his limbs wouldn’t necessarily obey him if he tried to give them orders. Restrained, all Barry has to do – all that Eobard _wants_ him to do – is exist, and allow himself to feel good.

Tonight Barry wants more than that. Tonight he wants to think of weddings, and new starts, and celebrate the distance they’ve come.

“Help me out of my clothes,” Barry says, briefly wondering why he’d bothered to put on pajamas at all. Eobard sits up, and between them they tug off Barry’s shirt and slide Barry’s loose soft pants off. Eobard divests himself of his own sleepwear – pants only; he sleeps shirtless, which Barry enjoys – and sets the clothing on the nightstand, where it will be easy to get at later. He spends a few minutes more fussing over blankets and pillows, making sure Barry is comfortable. Barry enjoys it at first. Tolerates it a little longer, because he knows how important it is to Eobard. But finally he rolls his eyes and says, “ _Enough_ , Eo.”

Eobard looks abashed. “I just – ”

“I know. But I’m not going to break.”

“Sorry.” Eobard kisses him in apology.

“A good start,” Barry says mock-seriously, “but you can do better, I think.”

That makes Eobard grin, a mischievous grin that Barry rarely sees, and loves all the more for its rarity. “Oh, is that so,” he says, and slithers down Barry’s body to get his mouth on Barry’s cock.

“Ahh, oh, God, Eo,” Barry pants. He wants to thrust, but his hips feel sluggish and he can’t quite muster the energy. He reaches down instead, clumsily threading fingers through Eobard’s hair and pulling. “Oh, yes, please.”

Eobard sucks with gusto; he knows what Barry likes now, and what Barry likes is fast and deep, hard sucks and the occasional scrape of teeth. He also really, really likes getting fingered while he’s sucked, and so it’s no surprise when Eobard pulls briefly off and fumbles in the nightstand for the lube.

“We’re almost out,” Eobard says breathlessly, shaking the bottle to wet his fingers. “Going to have to get more.”

“The sign of a healthy marriage,” Barry tells him, gasping as Eobard circles his hole with the first finger.

Eobard gets his mouth back on Barry’s cock then, and Barry loses the ability to make any kind of coherent sounds. Eobard seems to be taking everything he’s learned about Barry’s body since their wedding night and deploying it all at once, using every trick he has to make Barry fall apart in record time. Barry had thought about making it last, maybe about getting to suck Eobard in his turn, maybe getting fucked. He remembers none of that as he gasps and shudders apart under the combined onslaught of Eobard’s mouth and hands.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for _months_ ,” Eobard confesses afterwards, licking his lips from where he’d deep-throated Barry and swallowed his entire load. “Something always seemed to be getting in the way.”

“Let’s never let anything get in the way of that again,” Barry says devoutly.

“Oh no?” Eobard teases. He leans over to lick at one pebbled nipple, which is just unfair; he _knows_ how sensitive Barry gets immediately post-orgasm. “You don’t like me fucking you anymore?”

“Both,” Barry gasps. “Both are good.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Eobard slides up to press against Barry, rolling his hips languidly against Barry’s thigh.

“Do you want?” Barry makes to roll over, to reach down, but Eobard bats his hand away and keeps him in place.

“I want to tell you how amazing you look when you come,” Eobard tells him seriously. “The way you light up – it’s like you’re glowing with your whole body. You look transcendent. And _I_ give you that. Do you know what that does to me?” His voice breaks into a groan. The hot throbbing length of him, still slick with lube, slides against Barry.

“You take such good care of me,” Barry says. Eobard isn’t the only one who’s spent the time since their marriage to some account. Barry knows just what his husband likes to hear. What makes his eyes slide closed and his breath stutter and his orgasm hit him so fast he still looks surprised in the aftermath. “Everything I’ve ever wanted or needed, you’ve made sure I can have it. Including you. I love you so much, Eobard. Until death do us part.”

Eobard must have been close to the edge already. Maybe sucking Barry off had done it; his husband really does seem to love watching Barry shake apart under his ministrations. Maybe the whole night, the wedding, the reception, has been having the same effect on Eobard as it’s been having on Barry. Whatever the reason, Eobard groans again as soon as Barry tells him he loves him, and comes all over Barry’s hip when Barry promises him forever.

They cling to each other in the afterglow. Eobard buries his face in Barry’s shoulder, and it takes a minute for Barry to realize that the wetness he feels isn’t just from sweat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed, trying to make Eobard look at him.

Eobard shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. Barry can hear in his voice that he means it; hear how much that knowledge amazes and awes him. “Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. Everything is perfect.”

In a minute, Barry thinks, Eobard will move. He’ll get up and get a wet cloth, clean Barry up and himself. He’ll dab at the wet spot as well as he can, but when Barry offers to get up so the sheets can be changed. He’ll just nudge Barry a little to the side, so Barry isn’t in the wet spot, and then sleep in it himself. And Barry will let him, because that’s what will make Eobard happiest.

Tomorrow they’ll wake up and kiss again. They’ll eat something light here, and then dress in nice clothes and go to Iris and Eddie’s brunch reception. Tomorrow there will be Society, and jobs, and duty and obligation. There will be little vexations and bigger sources of happiness, occasional frowns and more frequent smiles. There will be family and friends and allies and, yes, the occasional enemy. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, all those things will come. But tonight, just now –

Tonight, Barry kisses his husband, and agrees with him. “Everything is _perfect_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they all lived happily ever after!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, followed, reblogged, drew fanart, and cheerlead. Even if you just popped your head out to send me virtual tea when I was sick, thank you! You all meant so much :) And to everyone who teamed up to kill me with kindness - ::dies:: you succeeded!
> 
> And special thanks again to the usual enablers, who went above and beyond. Elrhiarhodan researched everything from jewelry to how many floors are actually in STAR Labs. Coco liveflailed at me with every chapter, and Mara fed me a steady diet of feels to keep me in writing trim. Thank you all so much!
> 
> If you would, leave me one more comment and tell me how you liked the ending! I've had so much fun building this universe, thank you all for coming along with me :)

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to all the amazing aesthetics and fanarts for specific chapters, you can also enjoy the following equally amazing fic-wide treats:
> 
> [Character Aesthetics for Hartley Rathaway](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/148763321905/there-goes-all-the-cotton-candy-character) ([Coco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox))  
> [Fanart for Sally Gideon ](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/148838360230/there-goes-all-the-cotton-candy-sally-gideon) ([Coco](https://tmblr.co/m9H8P-8mpJpohdVGAA6E-xQ))  
> [More Fanart for Sally Gideon ](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/151427933265/here-comes-all-the-cotton-candy-flower-power) ([Coco](https://tmblr.co/m9H8P-8mpJpohdVGAA6E-xQ))  
> [Jewelry Aesthetics](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/149000827928/literallyflashtrash-more-stuff-for-the-marriage) ([literallyflashtrash](https://tmblr.co/mgMJDOUK0UabGRAo0DJ87yg))  
> [Thawne Industries Aesthetics](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/150085731010/thawne-industries-aesthetics) ([Elrhiarhodan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan))  
> [Thawne Town House Aesthetics](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/151293491195/thawne-town-house-aesthetics) ([Elrhiarhodan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan))
> 
> And don't forget to follow the link below to see the pages from the _Central City Examiner_ that [Elrhiarhodan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan) put together in honor of the engagement of Iris West and Edward Thawne!
> 
> A huge, huge hug and thanks to everyone who's made so much amazing stuff for this fic! I'm overwhelmed by the skill on display in each and every one of these creations, and grateful beyond words for the gift of your time and effort! Thank you all!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Central City Examiner - Society Pages (The Marriage Bargain)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7900105) by [elrhiarhodan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan)
  * [Iris and Eddie Wedding Aesthetics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8513170) by [MewWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MewWitch/pseuds/MewWitch)
  * [Valse D'Amour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669455) by [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox)




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